


i've seen you walk unafraid

by tenshi_who



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, M/M, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenshi_who/pseuds/tenshi_who
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Florentino finds out that Fábio and Cristiano are a couple. He tries to keep them quiet by threatening to keep Fábio on the bench. Cristiano has other ideas: he decides to tell the press that he's "sad", and the people at the club know why. The stand-off between Florentino and Cristiano snowballs into something bigger than anyone could have predicted.</p><p>Coming out fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sparksfly7 for beta!
> 
> Originally posted on LJ on November 29, 2012.
> 
> I'm on tumblr! [Stop by and say hi!](http://soliamosquedar.tumblr.com/)

The alarm goes off at exactly _ass o’clock_.

Fábio peels his eyes open, his face smooshed into his pillow. He blinks heavily, trying to get his bearings. The covers are ripped away from him and he tries to curl his body as tightly as he can, drawing his legs up and trying to escape the cold and block out the light. He hears laughter somewhere off to his right and he twists his body to try and kick at it. The thud and “oof” he hears as his foot connects to bare ribs is somewhat satisfying.

It’d be more satisfying if his morning tormentor hadn’t grabbed a hold of his foot, though. Because now he’s slowly being dragged off the bed. Fábio is blindly groping at the bedding, trying to grab hold of anything to delay the inevitable, but in about two seconds he’s on his back on the carpet with his foot still in the air.

“Ok, ok,” Fábio groans. “I’m awake. I surrender.” He blinks his eyes open slowly, looking up at Cris’s smiling morning-face peering down at him. Cris doesn’t even have the decency to look a little groggy, the bastard.

“Good morning, carinho. Always a ray of sunshine at these early hours,” Cris answers, his smile still clear even in his voice. He’s still got Fábio’s foot in his hands, now he’s rubbing his thumb over the insole, sweeping back and forth over the arch, watching his toes curl. Fábio jerks his foot out of his grip and rolls over with a groan, picking himself up off the floor and out of the pile of bedding. What a way to start a morning, seriously.

And for god’s sake, the alarm is _still_ going off.

“Turn off the damn alarm Cris! It sounds like a fucking airstrike or something.” Not only does Cristiano enjoy waking up at 7:30, but he also enjoys waking up to the sounds of sirens. “Why can’t we wake up to something happy, like a song or the iPhone Marimba or something?”

“I did used to wake up to happy alarms, you know,” Cris replies as he picks up the sheets from the floor and throws them back on the bed. “But then I started sleeping with this crazy guy who wakes up like he’s been in a coma and I knew those weren’t going to work.” He finally turns off the alarm and the room is thrown back into silence.

Fábio scratches at his bare stomach, still only half-awake, not enough to form a reply. He walks over and just puts his hands on Cris’s shoulders, runs them up his neck and cups his face. Cris’s grin has softened, affection replacing mirth, and he lets Fábio tilt his head down and press a kiss to his lips. He kisses back, lips pressed closed and curled into a smile.

Fábio pulls back. “And good morning to you too, Cris.” He drops a kiss onto the winger’s bare shoulder and ducks away into the bathroom, leaving the door open. The shower turns on and Cris gets an eyeful of naked Fábio getting ready for a shower.

He chuckles, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and taking them off. He tosses in them in the general direction of the hamper as he follows Fábio into the bathroom.

What a way to start a morning, indeed.

**~*~**

Nobody really questioned it when Fábio started carpooling with Cristiano to practice. After all, the two were neighbors and knew each other from the national team. They spoke the same language, and it was easy to strike up a friendship. They were “close friends” and “neighbors” and that’s about as much as anyone in Madrid knew about them.  (Except Pepe. Pepe’s known Cris for way too long for there to be secrets between them. Marcelo and Kaká know about them too, but if anyone _knows_ anything _,_ it’s Pepe.)

The guys tease Fábio for carpooling sometimes. On his salary, he should be able to afford the gas, right? The thirty minute drive is not going to break the bank. And it’s not like he comes early so he can get extra training hours or something. When the rest of the team arrives, they usually find Cris running wind sprints or doing footwork drills while Fábio sunbathes on the pitch or sits on the bleachers listening to music.

Fábio ducks his head with a shy smile and mumbles something in reply about Lamborghinis or about his broken alarm clock.

It’s not like he can say that the only reason he comes to practice so early is because it gives him a chance to wake up next to Cris each morning.

 

**~*~**

After practice, the team cleans up and heads to the Bernabéu. It’s the day before the last practice of the preseason, and they play Valencia on Sunday. The staff has organized a lunch for the first team, trainers, and managers. It’s a way to say goodbye to the offseason and celebrate before they get into the weekly grind of matches and training sessions.

The restaurant is up in Puerta 57, fittingly overlooking the pitch they’ll be playing on this weekend. It’s a casual lunch and the seating is open, so naturally everyone gravitates to sit with their friends. The Spanish national team sits together, as do the Portuguese and Brazilians, and the French and Germans. Mourinho and the trainers are at the table with management. Even though it’s a lunch meant for the team, members of the Real Madrid press team are in attendance, cameras clicking away and audio recorders in hand, ready to capture each usable sound bite.

Cris has Marcelo to his right and Fábio to his left with Pepe and Kaká across from him. They’re digging into some delicious surf n turf, steak and lobster and with a plate of mixed tapas in the middle. There’s no alcohol being served except for wine (because, for god’s sake, the pictures have to be publishable) but it’s almost like the atmosphere doesn’t even need it, everyone laughing and talking, players craning around to talk to the guys at the other tables.

“But I just said to him, ‘Man, peace and love, ok?’” Marcelo throws up what’s supposed to be a gangster hand sign as he tells his story. Fábio laughs so hard he falls against Cris because, seriously? That’s the dumbest thing to say to the cop who just pulled you over. “Wait, no, this one’s love, right?” Marcelo throws up another sign. “I think I gave him another hand sign. Well that explains why he got angry then, actually.” Everyone laughs again, and Fábio stays where he is against Cris, enjoying the moment.

Cristiano’s always more of a professional in public than Fábio. He’s been in the spotlight much longer and from a younger age than Fábio, so he always knows how to act discreetly in front of others. Fábio’s the type of person who’s not too bothered by all of that: he’ll kiss Cristiano’s neck in front of a stadium of thousands if he wants to. And even right now though he’s half-draped all over his lover in front of half the team and management, he’s not really worrying.

Pepe is grinning at them and says, without a twitch of his face, “Remember the cameras, guys. Come on.” Cris drops a hand onto Fábio’s knee, squeezing a bit before letting go. That’s their way of ‘holding hands’ in public, his sign to Fábio that, _yes, I love you too, but there are people around, so I can’t show you_. Fábio sighs and sits up straight.

Fábio sees Cris’s smile become more strained and suddenly everyone’s looking at something behind him. He feels a large hand settle on his shoulder and cranes his neck to look back. Florentino Pérez is smiling jovially at the table in that _way_ of his.

“How’s the food, everyone? Good?” he asks good-manneredly. Everybody agrees, tells him it’s delicious, and Marcelo starts going on about the quality of the lobster. For a lobster found in a football pitch nowhere near the sea, it’s surprisingly good! Florentino laughs and it looks like he’s about to go to another table to make his rounds, when he tilts his head to Fábio.

“Can I borrow you for a second, Fábio? I’ll let you get back to the food in a bit.” Florentino has a smile on his face and his tone is light, but Fábio still gets that uncomfortable feeling that something’s not right. He mumbles a “sure” and jerks a nod, standing up and following the president to Barra Cibeles, on the other side of the room. A bartender makes to go wait on them but Florentino waves him away and turns to Fábio once he’s out of earshot.

“What do you think about all this, Fábio?”

“The lunch? It’s a great idea I think, very nice for the team.” He’s having a little trouble with his Spanish, and his words are coming out mostly half-Portuguese. He hopes that Pérez understands, but he always struggles a bit when he’s nervous.

“Not the lunch, no. I mean all this,” he waves his hand in a vague gesture, “This restaurant, this stadium, this club, what do you think about this all?”

Fábio’s not really sure what he’s supposed to say. He fumbles for an answer and settles on his ‘media ready’ generic responses. “I think it’s great. The club is great, the stadium is amazing, and the team is amazing. I’m very committed to the te—”

Florentino cuts him off. “I’m not questioning your commitment to the team Fábio,” he chuckles. “I know you love the team, and I know you always do what’s best for the team.” He gives Fábio a look that sends a shiver up his spine, and Fábio feels like he’s being talked into a trap.

“Yes, sir. Always.”

 Florentino smiles, and Fábio thinks that maybe he did fall into the trap. “This club, this team, it didn’t come from scratch. Real Madrid didn’t build itself. We need to pay fees; we needed to build a stadium and to pay your wages. Every club needs to make money somehow. Madrid is no different. And you know how we make our money, Fábio?” Florentino’s tone is almost at the border of patronizing. It feels like he’s talking down to Fábio, and the Portuguese isn’t really sure what’s going on.

“Contracts? Sponsorships? Uhh, tickets sales? Player jerseys?” Fábio throws out suggestions.

“Exactly. Especially jerseys. You know how much Madrid makes off jerseys alone? Millions. The managers don’t sell jerseys, Fábio. Players do. Everyone gets the jersey with their favorite player on it, right?”

“Right.”

“And you know who everyone’s favorite is, of course.”

“Ronaldo?”

“Exactly.” Florentino’s eyes glint. “He’s not Spanish, he’s not a captain, he hasn’t even been here very long, but he sells the most jerseys out of everyone on the team. And do you know why? It’s not because he’s simply a great player. If it was that alone, everyone’s jerseys would sell like his. You know why Ronaldo sells so many jerseys?”

“Uh, because the girls like him?” Fábio answers, a feeling of dread creeping into the back of his head.

“That too. It’s because of marketing. We market Cristiano; we market _Ronaldo_ a specific way. He has a certain image he maintains. You know where I’m going with this, right?”

Oh God. He hopes not. He hopes Florentino isn’t going where Fábio thinks he’s going. The best he can do is stutter out, “N-no, I’m not really following, sir.”

“Fábio, we market Cristiano as a man. A strong, wholesome, complete man. His image, the idea of Ronaldo as this perfect man, it sells jerseys. Anything – or anyone – that affects that image is unacceptable.” His smile is gone; he’s looking at Fábio with a sharp warning in his eyes. “You understand me now?”

He understands perfectly, knows exactly what Pérez is trying to do. But even though he’s frozen to his seat, he’s not going to go down quietly, and in this passive-aggressive battle of wills, he’ll play the dumb blond card as long as he can. “I still don’t see what this has to do with me, sir.”

Pérez sighs like he’s disappointed. Like he expected _better_ from him. “Think about it,” he says, getting up from the stool. “I hope you figure it out before Sunday.” He gives Fábio a pat on his back as he leaves, but Fábio is too numb to react.

 

**~*~**

Fábio comes back to the table looking a little bit shell-shocked. The guys watch him as he quietly sits down (he discretely moves his chair away from Cris’s as he scoots in) and when he looks up they bombard him.

“What did he say?”

“What happened?”

“What was he talking to you about?”

They all speak at once and Fábio looks down at his half-eaten meal. He’s suddenly got no appetite and he really does not want to be here.

“Fábio.”

He looks up at the tone of Cris’s voice. He can’t quite meet his lover’s eyes, and looks back down at his plate. He picks up his fork and starts moving the food around.

With a sigh, Fábio answers, “He didn’t really say much. He was just talking about the game this weekend and stuff.” The look in his eyes begs ‘don’t ask me anything else’ and has Cris biting his lip in concern.

“Tell me later?” _When we get home,_ the words go unsaid. Fábio nods.

The rest of the meal drags on in a slow torture, and if anyone notices the Portuguese table is suddenly quieter, no one says anything.

 

**~*~**

“He’s not allowed to do that!” Cris exclaims in disbelief. “Is he?”

Jorge sighs on the screen. Fábio and Cris are sitting in the living room, Skyping with the Portuguese agent. Fábio had told Cris everything Florentino had said, more or less word for word, and all of the implications associated. Cris wore a look of furious disbelief as he listened to him, but Florentino’s parting words were the last straw.

“Technically, the team can bench or play anyone at their discretion. At this point we can’t really prove anything; it’ll be just your word versus the word of Florentino Pérez. In this club, you really don’t want to be going up against him, Fábio.”

The blond shrugs helplessly, “But what if they do bench me? What if I can’t play this week or next week or in the Clásico?”

Jorge has that calming ‘I’ve-dealt-with-everything-so-trust-me’ look on his face. “They can’t bench you the rest of the season just because you got a little handsy at a preseason lunch. Give it a week or two. Florentino will calm down, and Mourinho will play you. I would just take this in stride right now, let everything settle down, and see what happens in a few games.”

Fábio nods, not exactly placated, but it’ll have to do. Cristiano still looks furious; the idea of not being able to play, even for one game, is incomprehensible to him. Fábio trusts Jorge though, and they’ll listen to whatever their agent says.

“So, what do we do now? Just lay low and wait?” Cris asks, resigned.

“Exactly. Try and drive yourself to practice, and interact as much as possible with everyone else but each other. I hate to say it, but tone it way down for a while. Don’t give anyone reason to talk.” Cris nods at the man’s words. He looks at Fábio, who’s already watching him. They share a look, Cris searching Fábio’s eyes. He must have found what he was looking for, because he glances away, and says to Jorge, “OK. We can do that. That’s not a problem.”

Jorge looks satisfied, “Alright. Call me if anything else changes, you understand? I’m always your first call.”

They say their goodbyes and hang up the Skype call. The living room is silent, both men lost in the thoughts racing through their head. Finally, Cris sits back and settles into the couch cushions with a long sigh. He reaches for Fábio's hand and twines their fingers together, gently pulling so the other man leans back too. Fábio settles against Cris's shoulder and Cris wraps an arm around him.

"You know," Fábio starts, looking down at his jeans. "The whole possibly getting benched part isn't even what's bothering me."

Cris rests his face against Fábio's blond-streaked hair. "What’s bothering you then?"

"You know what, Cris," Fábio huffs. He leans away a bit so he can look the other man in the eye. "We've talked about this, you know. About what would happen if we ever came out." He feels Cris tense against him, but he continues, "I was thinking, if we ever did, that there would be people that would have a problem with it, with us. It's like, I already knew this. I was expecting it. But, I don't know. I just wasn't expecting it from someone in my club. From the fucking president of the whole club."

Cris wraps his arms tighter around him, presses kisses to his hair. “It’ll blow over, don’t worry. Like Jorge said, they won’t bench you forever. I think Florentino’s just worrying about the image of the club, or whatever. But it’ll be worse for the image of the club if we lose because you’re on the bench. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s just… the fact that he threatened me in the first place. I still can’t believe it,” he sighs.

Cristiano sighs too. “There’s always going to be people like that, Fábio. We like to think that two footballers can be gay and together and everything is happy, but it won’t always be like that. We just have to keep doing our job and not give people anything to point at afterwards.”

Fábio sits quietly, agreeing with Cris’s words. He’s always made his own decisions his entire life, with his father off at sea and his mom away at work. It’s always been him that made the choices. Now, it feels like the decisions have already been made and he’s simply been informed of his role. He doesn’t like to sit and wait on others, but right now, it seems like he’s got no other options.

 

**~*~**

 

Fábio watched Madrid tie Valencia from the bench.

He was originally supposed to start, but once he arrived at the Mirasierra for concentration, Mourinho pulled him and Marcelo aside and said there had been a change of plans. Marcelo would be starting now and Fábio would be a substitute. He handed Fábio a new copy of the starting eleven and their positions before turning to Marcelo to give him a brief rundown of the changes. Marcelo shot him a puzzled glance as he leaned in to look at the Mister’s notes.

The game was flat from Madrid’s side. It was like the players were having a hard time communicating, and a lack of motivation kept the team from accomplishing much. If it wasn’t for Pipa, it would have been a straight loss, and as it is, Madrid was lucky to have come away with a tie.

Fábio could see the frustration of the players in the locker room. Cris wore his clearly all over his face. He was already rehashing the match in his head, beating himself up about the should-have and could-have’s. Fábio walks over to his bench and quietly sits next to him, not saying anything. He’s a professional, he knows a loss is a loss and a tie is a loss of two points, and he knows that empty platitudes never make anyone feel better. He’s just there for Cris.

Cristiano smiles gratefully when he sees him. Fábio drops a hand onto the other man’s knee and squeezes gently. They listen to Mourinho and Aitor’s post-match speech side by side.

**~*~**

Fábio goes home to his own empty house and collapses on the bed. He finally checks his phone. He’s got two missed calls, one from Andreia and one from a relative. He gives his ex-girlfriend a call first, splayed out on his pillow with his eyes closed. They talk for a while, catching up on each other’s lives before she puts Vitória on the line. Since they’ve broken up, Andreia keeps custody of their daughter during the regular season. Fábio gets visits, and gets her during breaks and some stoppages, but usually he only hears from her on the phone or on Skype.

He lets his daughter babble at him, just relishing in hearing her voice. Once Andreia comes back on and they hang up, he calls back his older brother, and hops in the shower. Even though he didn’t play at all, it feels nice to get clean and just stand in the spray with his eyes closed.

He heads to Cris’s when he’s done, because there’s not much to do in his empty house. Cris had given him his own set of keys a while back, so he unlocks the gate and slips inside. Dolores had been by earlier to drop off little Cristiano and some food, so when he walks in the house is full of laughter and the smell of good cooking wafts through the air.

He finds them in the kitchen, little Cris sitting on the countertop as he watches his father opening Tupperware containers and serving dinner onto plates (two big plates and one little colorful plate; Fábio’s heart swells). They both look up when he walks in, and Junior cries out happily “Papá Fábio! Papá!” He kicks his little feet against the cabinets and demands to be put on the ground. Cristiano laughs and rounds the island, stopping in front of Fábio to give him a big ‘welcome home’ kiss. Junior kicks his feet again when he sees them taking too long and yells at Cris, “Pai! Floor! I wanna say hi to papá!” Fábio pulls away with a laugh and Cris just looks at him, a soft smile on his face as he gently swipes a thumb over the scar on the other man’s cheek in greeting.

He turns around. “I’m coming, I’m coming! Don’t you love me, Cris? You weren’t this excited when you saw me earlier.” Cris makes a sad puppy face, but Junior is immune. He simply holds his arms out. Cris sighs jokingly and picks him up of the counter and Junior is already squirming by the time Cris puts him down. He runs to Fábio. “Up!” he laughs.

Fábio crouches down and plants a big kiss on Junior’s cheek before he picks him up and puts him on his hip.

Junior gives him a kiss, too. “Where were you today papá? I didn’t see you,” he asks with big eyes.

“I was at the game with your pai,” Fábio answers with a smile, not really understanding.

“But I didn’t see you! You didn’t play today!” he insists.

“Yeah, I was on the bench today. The coach didn’t need me to play today.” Cris and Fábio exchange a look. Fábio sets Junior back on the countertop (the kid is heavy for a two year old!) but wraps his arm around him as he leans back to watch Cris finish serving.

“Are you sad?” Junior asks, kicking his little feet again.

“About what? About not playing?” Junior nods. “Uh, a little bit. I’m always sad when I don’t play. But it’s ok.”

“You gotta play! I don’t like to see papá sad.” Fábio laughs at that.

“I don’t like to see papá sad either!” Cris pipes up from the other side of the kitchen. “We’re gonna make sure papá plays next game, OK? Dinner’s served. And once we’re done eating we’re going to put you to bed, little man. It’s way past your bedtime.” Little Cris lets out a wail of protest at the thought of going to sleep.

 

**~*~**

As soon as he’s out of Junior’s room with the door softly closed behind him, Cristiano feels arms wrapping around his waist and suddenly he’s being thrown up against the wall. His shoulders thud and Fábio presses against him, holding him in place as his lips slant over Cris’s. Cris turns his head away.

“Easy there, tiger. I _just_ put him to sleep.” His breath is coming a bit shorter. He’d seen the looks Fábio was shooting him over dinner, and the way Fábio had been watching him bathe Junior, shirt wet and sticking to his body, before Fábio abruptly left the bathroom.

Fábio laughs and Cris feels it on his neck. “OK, quietly,” he whispers. He stands back so Cris can get up off the wall and he curls a finger into the other man’s belt loop, dragging him down the hall to the bedroom.

If there’s one thing that Fábio knows about Cris, is that the man loves to be in control. The captain of Portugal, he is in control of a team that trusts him one hundred percent, of the country that places all its hopes on him. Even in Madrid, he controls the outcomes of matches with the goals he scores or doesn’t. Everything from his image, to his contracts, to the images printed of his son is tightly controlled. Fábio knows all of this.

But if there’s one thing he knows that Cris loves more than being in control, it’s having that control ripped away from him. In bed. By Fábio.

Because in bed, he’s not the only hope of Portugal, or Madrid’s goal machine. In bed, Fábio holds him down, presses his wrists above his head, and does what he wants (what he knows Cris wants). Fábio drives him crazy and the normally proud Cristiano Ronaldo is reduced to begging, pleading, moaning, screaming Fábio’s name.

It’s these moments that Fábio keeps for himself, locked up in his memory. This is what he thinks about when he sees Cristiano Ronaldo on a Nike ad, or leading the huddle in Portugal’s locker room, or telling the Camp Nou to calm the fuck down. He thinks, ‘ _You might be Cristiano Ronaldo out there. But in here? In here you’re all mine.’_

**~*~**

Everything boils over in the game against Getafe.

Fábio sits on the bench... again. He's never played and barely looked at until he’s being sent off, but things on the pitch were even worse. There were so many missed opportunities that leave everyone looking out of sorts at the end. Everyone in the bench celebrated Higuaín’s opening goal, but the happiness faded with every tic of the clock as Getafe scored twice and Madrid was unable to reply.

Late into the second half, after the equalizer was scored, Mourinho turned around to face the bench and scanned the players’ faces, searching. He reads his notes and looks up again, right at Fábio.

“Coentrão! Varane! Warm up,” he said sharply. Fábio is stunned; he figured he wasn’t playing this game either. El Mister hadn’t mentioned line-up changes during the break, and he figured that maybe Florentino’s vendetta against him would last at least one more game. He’s definitely not complaining though.

They put on their orange warm-up vests and hit the touchline, doing their normal routine to get loose. They’re doing side steps when Getafe score again, and a tense feeling of quiet panic takes hold of the Madrid bench. A few minutes later, once Karanka has determined them to be properly warmed up, he waves them back toward the bench. Mourinho’s buried in his notebook and looks up at them. His eyes glance back and forth between Raphaël and him, assessing. Finally, he says “Varane,” and the Frenchman goes over to stand next to him, receiving the coach’s instructions.

Fábio just stands there, furious. He’s warmed up, he’s fit, and he’s got the experience, but now this teenager is being subbed in over him? What the fuck? He heads back to the bench, jaw tight and full of coiled up anger. He thinks, distantly, that this is how Kaká must feel every game, ready to play but always watching from the sidelines. Mourinho looks at him over Raphaël’s shoulder. It’s a quiet look of warning that Fábio completely turns away from. He can’t even look at his coach right now.

He’s just angry, the kind of angry that needs an outlet. He hadn’t even meant to shout those things at the referee, especially not when he was standing close enough to hear. But it was like word vomit, he saw a bad call and he couldn’t stop. He just wanted someone else to be feeling bad like he was.

But pretty soon Fábio himself was feeling worse, because the ref whirled around and gestured at him, showing him a red card and ejecting him from the game. Fábio slowly left the pitch and walked into the tunnel, not meeting any of his teammates’ eyes, not meeting Cris’s confused and upset gaze from across the pitch.

 

**~*~**

Four matches.

He’d earned himself a four-match ban from a red card in a game he didn’t even play.

Real Madrid put in an appeal against the ban, but Fábio wasn’t holding out any hope. Mourinho had pulled him aside after the post-match ‘what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-all-of-you’ speech. He told him that he was very disappointed in Fábio, but he made his own decisions and maybe four matches is exactly what he needs to get his head on straight. Fábio quietly pointed out that he had already not played in two, to which Mourinho cryptically replied, “Our lineups are not decided by just one person.”

So. Fábio was not expecting much to be done.

Cristiano, however, is not as acquiescent and furiously calls up their agent.

 Jorge tells them exactly what Fábio had been thinking the whole time. Madrid would fight the sanction, but only as a formality, the way they appeal almost everything they get. But Fábio himself earned that ban so they can’t put it on Florentino, or on Mourinho. They’d have to keep waiting until the four matches are done before they pursue any action against Madrid.

It doesn’t really pacify Cris either, and hearing it from their agent doesn’t make it any better. The thought of four matches off the pitch is daunting, especially with so many players clamoring to take his place on the starting lineup. Also, Fábio’s blood ran cold at Jorge’s talk of “pursuing action against the club,” and he knows Cris’s did too.

Playing for Real Madrid was always his dream, playing for the club of Zidane and Ronaldo, and his idol Luís Figo. And now that he’s here, now that he’s wearing the crest on the pitch of the Bernabéu, it’s not what he thought it would be.

He hadn’t planned on falling for his Portuguese captain during the World Cup in South Africa, or on following him to Madrid. He hadn’t actually given much thought to leaving Benfica, but when his childhood dream club made him the substantial offer, he almost literally couldn’t refuse. But now his older brothers are calling him asking if he’s pissed off Mourinho, because he’s not letting him play. Now he’s locked into a quiet battle with the head of the club. Now Cris is bearing the brunt of it out on the pitch, worry seeping out of every pore reflected in his poor form and lack of goals.

His feels his dream is getting away from him and he’s hit with that same feeling of helplessness. Even with everything he’d been through to get here, he’s never felt quite like this. He’s been overlooked in the past because of who he was, a fisherman’s son from a poor neighborhood with little education. He’s always been able to rise above that though, to prove himself and provide for himself without depending on others.

But right now, he couldn’t prove shit. He couldn’t even play. There was nothing he could do except sit back and let Florentino and everyone else push him around as he watched his dream slip out of his grasp, other players playing in the spot that should be his.

**~*~**

Cristiano, of course, takes matters into his own hands.

His mother as always told him “fight for the things you care about” and if there was ever a time to do so, it was now. He’s sick of letting everyone else run his and Fábio’s life. It wasn’t the time to sit back and wait; the terrible Getafe game was proof of that. It was time to take action.

He'd given it a few days before he called ahead and arranged a meeting with Florentino. He waited until after the Supercopa was over and the thrill of a victory and a Barcelona defeat was fresh in everyone’s minds. The unexpected transfer of Essien to the team threw a wrench in the works, though; the president of the club was busier than ever and only had a short time to spare after the player’s hastily organized presentation.

He sits in the man’s office, waiting for him to arrive. As he thinks about what he wants to say, he looks around the room. He sees a picture of himself and of other Galácticos lining Florentino’s walls, and other pictures from the man’s two terms as president of the club. A statue of Cibeles, Madrid’s various logos throughout the years. It still gives him a sense of wonder as he realizes, he’s a part of all this. Even the picture of the team winning La Novena brings a small smile to his face, instead of the usual pressure he feels at the thought of the Champions League.

Florentino bursts into the room with an air of organized chaos, dictating to a frazzled secretary as he walks. Cristiano rises from his seat out of respect, and as soon as the man is finished and the secretary is gone, he walks over and shakes Florentino’s hand.

“Sorry Cristiano, I don’t have a lot of time right now, we weren’t really planning on signing someone else this late. But how are you? How’s your son? Sit! Sit!” The man rambles a bit, just looking like a harried old man and nothing like the shrewd villain Cris was making him out to be in his mind.

“Cristianinho is doing fine,” Cris answers as he takes a seat. He goes along with the small talk, trying to keep the atmosphere light. “He’s running around with so much energy now, it’s exhausting.”

Florentino laughs, “Running around on the pitch and then at home. You never catch a break.”

They chuckle together, even though it’s not really that funny. Once the quiet stretches on for a beat too long, Florentino twines his fingers together, folding them on the desk as he leans forward. “Was there something you needed, Cris? I’ve got to head downstairs in a few minutes.”

Cris nods, steeling himself. “Why isn’t Fábio playing?” he asks.

“Excuse me?” Florentino replies with a twitch of the eyebrow.

“Why isn’t Fábio Coentrão playing?” Cristiano repeats patiently and clearly, not backing down.

“He’s got a four match ban, Cristiano,” the older man answers, a polite smile still on his face. “We appealed it, but the appeal was rejected.”

“I don’t mean right now, I mean in general. He hasn’t played a single minute this season. Why is that?” Cris presses.

“Our lineups are not decided by just one person. You’ll have to talk to José or Aitor, they’re the ones who see you guys day to day and make those calls,” Florentino shrugs, tone still light.

“Do they?” Cris asks sharply, staring the older man down. Florentino meets his gaze evenly, unflappable. “I know what you said to Fábio. About me.”

“Oh?”

“And I know that you’ve told the coaches to bench him until he comes crawling to you in apology saying he’ll never be seen in public with me again.”

“Cristiano—”

“You didn’t have a problem with him until a few weeks ago. He hasn’t done anything. There’s nothing in the rules that he’s broken. Why are you punishing him?”

“Look, Cristiano,” Florentino starts, “When you signed your contract, there were a lot of clauses. One thing we discussed a lot with your agent was how you and the club were going to divide up your image rights. You know how important image is to a celebrity of your status. Think how it must be even more important for a club like Madrid.”

“I understand that, but I don’t see how Fábio would hurt your image,” Cris insists. “Nobody even knows about us!”

“Fábio signed a similar contract. All the players agree that their lives off the pitch are a reflection of the team and anything they do they will do discretely. Fábio was not discrete. Our press team was not able to use a single picture of you two from that luncheon because of him. People might not know, but they are talking, Cristiano. My job is to make them shut up. And if that means putting Coentrão on the bench for a while, so be it. He’ll learn not to repeat his actions.”

“That’s – that’s not fair,” Cris manages, barely able to believe the words coming out of Florentino’s mouth. A part of him had been wishing that Fábio had been overreacting to what Florentino said at the preseason lunch, or that Fábio’s time on the bench had just been simple coincidence. But hearing it all coming from the president of Real Madrid was a harsh slap of reality.

 “What do you want, Cristiano?” Florentino sighs tiredly, like he’s already sick of having this conversation.

Cris hesitates. What did he even come here for? He came here to argue Fábio’s case, but now it was obvious that nothing could be or would be done. Cris looks back into Florentino’s calculating eyes. There is one thing he still wants, though. One impossible thing.

“Listen, me and Fábio are gay,” he answers, ignoring the way Florentino cringes, as if because Cristiano himself just admitted it that now it’s worse. “It’s the truth. We are together. We’ve been together for a while. But we’re also professionals. I want you to accept that and allow that. Allow us to be who we are in public.”

Florentino was shaking his head before Cristiano even finished, “I can't do that Cris.”

They’re staring each other down, each one willing the other to crumble, turn away, blink, show weakness of any kind. There’s not much that Cris has to bargain with right now, but he’s still got one card he can still put down:

“Then I'm not going to play on Sunday.”

Florentino’s brows furrow in incredulity. “That's not an option, Cristiano. You don't get to give me an ultimatum. For once, you need to think about the needs of the team before your whims. No player is bigger than Real Madrid, and that includes you.”

Cristiano fumbles, “Fábio is not a whim.” It’s embarrassing that that’s all he can come up with now, but it’s like all the fight left him every time he was shot down, until he had nothing left to defend himself with.

“You know that's not the point here. You’re playing this Sunday, Fábio is not. End of story.”

They’re locking eyes again, but this time it’s different. The defiance is gone and Cris is looking back sullen and angry, and Florentino has that note of authority in his eyes, the ‘I-have-spoken-and-you-will-obey’ look.

Cris is the first to turn away, and Florentino relaxes.

The Portuguese sighs, “So, what now? I play against Granada, OK. But what about Fábio? When does he get to play?”

“We can discuss that after his ban gets lifted,” Florentino says with a tone of finality.

The shrill sound of the phone ringing cuts through the dangerously tense atmosphere. Florentino says a quick “Excuse me” as he turns to pick it up, polite as always even though his tone is cold. He’s being summoned back down to the media room for some more business.

Cristiano stands up, legs and back feeling stiff, a sad, heavy pit in his stomach. Florentino sees him to the door. They walk down the hall and take the elevator together in silence, the older man seeming as calm and unflappable as always with that little ‘cordial’ half-smile still on his face, while Cris avoids looking in his general direction.

He barely greets Michael Essien, Mourinho's new signing. He remembers him from when they faced each other in the Premier League, him in Manchester and Essien with Chelsea. Michael was always a friendly guy, but Cris can’t bring himself to muster up more than a half-smile and handshake for him and his relatives.

He drives home quietly, no music on, mind blank. He’d brought the Aventador because he didn’t give a fuck about being seen; let the whole city see him for all he cared. Now he wishes he’d brought the Audi and was able to go unnoticed. The spectacular failure of his discussion with Florentino has left him miserable. In the same way that he rehashes all of his mistakes after a match, now that he’s driving away he’s thinking of all the things he should have said, the ways he should have replied, the points he should have made. He swallows down the lump in his throat and the feeling of inadequacy. He just wants to go home.

 

**~*~**

He finds Fábio poolside, along with his son. The two are relaxing, splayed out on the pool chairs getting some sun. Junior is covered from head to toe in a light sheen of sunscreen (Fábio was always super protective of his skin) and was curled up against Marosca the way Cris himself liked to, using the big golden dog as a comfy pillow. Fábio is on the pool chair next to Junior, sprawled out half-asleep in just his swim trunks (he’s never been a short shorts type of guy, much to Cris’s dismay).

Cristiano just stands there by the glass doors, looking out at his little family, a surge of love making his heart swell. He tries to see what Florentino sees, trying to find the evil or the wrongness in how happy this makes him feel. He can’t find it though, can’t see anything in this image of his lover and his son except perfection.

Cris walks over to Fábio’s chair and kneels down. He picks up the other man’s limp arm and wraps it around himself as he presses his face into Fábio’s shoulder. Fábio startles awake, not having meant to have fallen into a light sleep while he was supposed to be watching Junior. He curls his arm tighter around his lover’s shoulders once he realizes who it is.

“Hey,” Fábio croaks out, “you just get home?”

Cris says nothing, just pulls his lower lip between his teeth and scrunches his face up. Alarm bells ring for Fábio; that’s Cris’s ‘I’m-really-upset-and-I’m-not-OK’ face.

“Cris? What’s wrong, meu amor?” Cris just presses his face harder against Fábio’s shoulder, shaking his head. His shoulders are trembling. Fábio sits up and wraps another arm around Cris and pulling him closer, making a little shield with his body the way he wants to do in real life, shield Cris from everything and anyone out to hurt him. “It’s gonna be OK, Cris. Remember? It’s gonna be OK,” Fábio rambles, trying for comforting but not even believing it himself.

Cris keeps shaking his head, as if to say, _‘No, Fábio, it’s not. It’s not OK, but I’m going to try to fix this for you even if it costs me._ ’

 

**~*~**

The game against Granada goes smoothly, and even though it wasn’t pretty, a win is a win. And for it being a rare game in which he didn’t even want to be playing, Cristiano’s own performance was spectacular. There were moments of brilliance, where the team was finally gelling together and regaining last season’s rhythm. There were also moments when it became obvious that they had more work ahead of them if they were going to try to reclaim all the titles they had won.

When Cristiano scores, it's bittersweet. The kick was full of frustration and adrenaline, and when the ball crossed into the net at such a sharp angle, the fans went wild. Their reaction makes Cris look up. He sees the fans up in the stands screaming in jubilation, dressed in white with signs and banners, and wonders, 'Would you still be cheering if you really knew about me?' The thought alone is enough to make his head drop and shoulders slump.

His teammates run to him grinning with exhilaration, but he doesn't celebrate with them.

**~*~**

Cristiano scores his brace and Pipita notches in a third goal to give Madrid its first win of the new season. But Cris has been in this town long enough to know that the press isn’t going to be focusing on that.

He enters the mixed zone with his head high but eyes downcast. Journalists and cameramen press against the barrier to get as close to him as they can, holding out their microphones.

"Do you want me to talk?" he asks. It's a dumb question, because the answer is always 'of course', but Cris isn't even sure if he wants to talk. He heads over and almost rolls his eyes as he hears the inevitable first question.

 "You’ve finally scored again, scored two goals, but you did not celebrate them. Why?"

"Uh... because..." Cris hesitates. Now’s his chance to back out. His lack of celebration was intended as a message to Florentino, one that he thinks the man heard loud and clear. He could leave it at that and leave with the Seleção tomorrow on a bittersweet note. But he remembers that tomorrow he’ll be leaving with Fábio. Fábio, who’ll play for Portugal, but not for Madrid because Madrid is a club that will threaten him, that will refuse to stand up for him, that would rather see him on the bench than anywhere near Cristiano. Cris is not thinking of what is best for the club right now, because the club is sure as hell not thinking about what is best for him. Right now, he’s thinking that he wants to see Florentino sweat.

"Well…” he answers, “Maybe I'm a little sad. That’s the only reason. When I don’t celebrate my goals it’s because I’m sad." He can see all their eyes lighting up at his words, the prospect of this new breaking story to run during international break exciting to them and they lean forward, crowding him.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “The people know why.” A murmur rises through the crowd.

“Is it about the other day,” someone speaks up, “Because of the UEFA award?”

Cristiano almost scoffs. He hasn’t even thought about the award since his meeting yesterday. It’s the furthest thing on his mind, actually. “No, it’s not about that. That’s the least of it all. There are other things more important than that.” _Much more important things._

“Cristiano! Wh-”

“I’m not going to talk about it anymore,” he cuts her off, trying to control the situation.  “The people know why.”

“Is it personal or professional?”

Cristiano hesitates, debating how to answer. Technically, the answer is ‘both’; this is a personal matter that has become a professional issue. But if he says ‘personal’, it’ll only make him look bad, like a whiny kid who’s having problems with his girlfriend or something. If he answers ‘professional’, however, then it becomes a club issue, and all hell breaks loose.

“Professional.”

A reporter actually asks him about the match, bless her soul. Cris half-heartedly discusses his latest record-breaking goal scoring figure, but out of the corner of his eye he can see the crowd of impatient journalists waiting to get back to ‘the real story’.

“Cristiano! Are you mad at the people who criticized your form? Who are you mad at?”

Cristiano blinks. “No one.” He never said he was mad. Already, right in front of him, the press is changing the story. He can hear the voice of Jorge Mendes screaming in his head ‘Get out of there!” and he fidgets.

“So why do you say that people know why you’re sad?”

“The people in the club.” Cris cringes internally at how that sounds. A ‘professional’ problem that the ‘people in the club’ know about that’s making him ‘sad’. He’s glad that he’s leaving for Portugal tomorrow, because he sure as hell is not looking forward to seeing the headlines he’s just created.

“Can’t you tell us why you’re sad?”

“They know why. I can’t say anything else.” He’s about to turn away to leave when a voice from the crowd stops him.

“Cristiano, the league is in a ten day pause for international break. With this news of your sadness, it’s going to be ten hard days for the team and the fans. If you’re sad, why—”

“Now it’s national team!” He cuts the journalist off almost gleefully. Sure, it’ll be ten hard days. For Florentino. “Well, I’m not going to say any more.” He turns and walks away, ducking his head as he leaves the mixed zone, dozens of chattering confused journalists in his wake.

Mission accomplished.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

The flight from Madrid to Lisbon is one that Cristiano is very familiar with. He takes it every few weeks, either by himself or with his teammates. He knows Barajas by heart, and on the rare occasions when he does fly alone, he’s almost sure he could pass through customs and immigration with his eyes closed.  
  
(The last time he flew alone to Lisbon, it was in the summer to meet Fábio in Madeira so they could spend a few days alone. Their days were spent lounging lazily, watching little Cris playing with his favorite cousin Dinis, and Fábio had custody of Vitória for the holiday, so finally their little family was all together.)  
  
Fábio, Pepe and Cris were waiting for their flight in the VIP Lounge. Fábio kept throwing his lover these slightly awestruck, disbelieving looks, still stunned at the fucking _cojones_ on his man. His oldest brother keeps sending him text updates on the media frenzy in Spain.  
  
"So. Apparently you're going to Russia now," he tells Cris blankly.  
  
The other man laughs. "What happened to PSG? Did they get outbid?"  
  
"I guess so. But also their market is closed now, so now all of this is your desperate attempt to join a Russian team with an unpronounceable name."  
  
"Huh. Maybe I should call up Irina..." he mutters with a smirk and a wink. Fábio shoots him a mock-angry look and Cris squeezes his knee in apology. (He really just wants to kiss that pout away, but they're in public, and being careless in public was exactly what got them into this mess.)  
  
Pepe looks up from his laptop at them, shaking his head. "You guys are crazy." Fábio and Cris exchange a look and burst out laughing, Cris finally giving into temptation a little bit, resting his head on Fábio’s shoulder and sneaking a kiss to his neck before turning away.

Neither of them had completely filled Pepe in yet on everything that had happened. He’d called Cristiano after the Granada game to bitch him out and demand an explanation, but Cris was already in the process of getting a verbal beat down from Jorge, so he just told his friend he’d tell him later and to not believe anything he was hearing.

An airport attendee came in to inform them that their flight was ready for takeoff. They grabbed their bags and made their way out to the G4 on the tarmac, idly thankful there were no photographers out there. Once they were settled in their seats and listened to the safety demonstration, they were finally left alone _._ As soon as the last stewardess left the cabin, Pepe whirled around and grabbed the seat across from the other two and leveled them with a serious, expectant look, eyebrow quirked.

Pepe’s reaction when they explain everything that’s happened is pretty much the same as Cris’s reaction was when Fábio told him: angry and disbelieving.

“Are you fucking serious? That guy has no right to do that,” Pepe fumes. “That’s blackmail, you know? He’s fucking blackmailing you!” Honestly, Fábio and Cris hadn’t really thought about it that way, but that’s what it boiled down to. Florentino was using his knowledge of Fábio’s relationship with Cris against him in order to make him do what the older man wanted. It _was_ blackmail, in a way.

“Damn! Marcelo’s gonna flip a shit when he finds out.” The defender whips out his phone and taps a few keys, opening a text.

Fábio grabs Pepe’s phone out of his hands. “Wait, Pepe, don’t tell Marcelo yet.”

Pepe looks up at him, confusion written over his angry features. “Why not? He needs to know what’s going on!”

“I know, but he’s a captain,” Fábio answers him. He and Cris had talked about this, about what and when to tell Marcelo and Pepe and the guys. They decide to hold off on telling the team anything at all until the international break is over. They’ll tell Pepe, however, because he’s coming to Portugal with them and they both trust him implicitly. It just that with Marcelo, even though they trust him, Cris is too worried about anything getting to someone like Iker before they can talk to him themselves.

“Yeah, but he’s _Marcelo_.”

Fábio sighs, “Yeah, I know. But he’s still a captain, and I’m not sure I’m ready for the captains to know yet.”

“But Marcelo already knows about you two,” Pepe points out insistently.

Cris butts in, “Look, we’ll tell him eventually, but just don’t tell him right now. Leave that to us. Just-” he hesitates, “Just tell him not to believe anything he hears, OK?”

**~*~**

When they get to the hotel they see some of their teammates in the lobby, as well as copious amounts of Louis Vuitton luggage. Nani is the first to spot them and he runs up to them, greets Fábio and grabs Cris in a bone-crushing hug.

“Cris, is it true? You’re coming home?” His eyes are bright with laughter and anticipation.

“No Nani, I’m not going back to United. Don’t believe that shit.” He watches Nani’s face fall, comically exaggerated, and the winger gives him a friendly shoulder punch.

“Asshole. Getting me all excited like that.” Honestly, he hadn’t believed any of it, but it was always nice to hope.

“Besides, it’s not going to be home if you won’t be there,” Cris smoothly steers the conversation away from himself and to Nani’s own transfer drama.

Nani groans, “Oh god, the never ending saga.” He starts to fill Cris in on all of the harrowing details.

Fábio is all the way on the other side of the room catching up with Miguel and the rest of the guys. It feels a little bit like coming home, like seeing old friends and relatives again. They don’t mention what happened the last time they were all together as a team, losing in penalties or the end of their Euro Cup dream. They just talk about everything that’s happened in between then and now, talk shop about their clubs and shoot the shit, just happy to be back together. Everyone congratulates Pepe on the birth of his daughter, and he goes around with his cellphone, showing off pictures of her to anyone who would listen. Someone (João? Raul? He’s not sure) has their speakers out and is blasting some rhythmic dancy reggaeton and pretty soon the whole team is singing along off-key.

They breathe easier, Fábio and Cris, when they’re with Portugal. It makes everything feel lighter, this air of easy camaraderie with their teammates. And for Cristiano, it makes the crest on his jersey feel more like a badge of honor and less like another leaden weight for him to carry.

 

**~*~**

The lime green Nike training shirts always feel different than his white Adidas ones somehow, the first time Cris puts them on after a while. It’s almost like he can sense the difference in the drag of the fabric against his skin, the weight of a different crest. He looks in the mirror and the letters ‘F.P.F’ stare back at him. _Federação Portuguesa de Futebol_. Somehow, those letters always mean more to him than the ‘M.C.F.’, ‘M.U.C.F.’ or even the ‘S.C.P’ on all the other crests he’s played for.

Paulo Bento had taken him aside before the first training, right as they’re about to leave their hotel. Cris had known what was coming, was expecting the talk he was about to get. Bento asked him point blank if whatever was going on with his club was going to affect him out on the pitch. The immediate answer was no, of course not, and his coach nodded like he hadn’t expected any different. Above almost everything else, Cristiano is a professional, and while he doesn’t know exactly what he would do if it was Portugal he was having a problem with instead of Madrid, he knows that right now he’s putting his country first.

**~*~**

He hears about what Álvaro said about him from Jorge. His agent sends him the transcript of it, and when Cris reads it, he’s actually surprised. Álvaro, of course, has absolutely no idea what’s going on, only knows what everyone else knows. That didn’t stop him from being the only one so far to speak up for him to the media and defend him against their criticism to the extent that he did. Álvaro said the team was a family, and that families stick together during the good times and bad. He even dropped a Malcolm X quote, for god’s sakes. That’s solidarity.

Cris sends him a text message: **Álvaro. wow.** It’s all he can really say, he’s just surprised by the show of support. He figured the media would be going crazy asking all of his teammates for any scrap of information they could get about his “mystery sadness”, but he had expected all of his teammates to politely decline to comment and ask to talk only about the national team. He didn’t think anyone would actively defend him.

Álvaro replies: **jajaja, you’re welcome. every word is true.**

The text makes Cris stop for a bit. Álvaro actually has no clue about Cris and Fábio and their situation. But he spoke up for them anyway, and now people are talking about him and criticizing him over it. He feels like he owes the Spaniard at least an explanation; Álvaro has always been a good friend and teammate, so Cris trusts that he will be discrete with anything he tells him. He replies: **thanks. but i’ll explain it to you when we get back and i’ll let you decide if you want to take it back.** That way he’ll at least know what cause his words are defending, and if he’s asked about it later, he can say ‘no comment’ instead of standing up for him again.

Álvaro’s reply comes quickly: **you can explain whatever you want but im not taking anything back. i already told you i meant it.**

A smile creeps onto Cris’s face when he reads it. It’s very rare to find unconditional support like that from anyone, even teammates. If anything, it gives him a spark of hope. He sends back: **that means more than you know. good luck with la roja.**

Álvaro answers: **good luck to you!!! forca!!! but not too much, hahaha**

Cris locks his phone with a smile still on his face. He hasn’t heard much else from his other teammates, as they are all off with their national teams and busy focusing on their own qualifiers. Marcelo had sent him a text telling him that the captains had been forbidden from speaking about him in public until the break was over. He sent his support anyways, along with Clarisse’s picture of Enzo and Junior’s play date. Even with all the shit going on, he can’t help a grin at how fucking great his friends are.

**~*~**

 

Portugal wins both their matches. Cris scored one goal and he celebrated it. It was a low key, subdued celebration, but a celebration nonetheless. Because, what the fuck? He’s happy to play for his Seleção and has no problem showing it. This gives fuel to the media blaze, however, as it cements the fact that it’s solely a club issue.

On the last day before they have to go home to Spain, Cris sneaks out of his hotel room and goes up to Fábio’s. They have a routine down. Cris always rooms with Pepe, and Fábio always rooms with Miguel Veloso. Miguel had known about Fábio and Cris for a while, and he and Fábio always work out an agreement that ends up with Miguel going to temporarily room with Pepe in order for them to spend some nights together. Fábio always goes down to reception and, with his clueless-blond act, feeds the receptionists the same story: ‘I’ve lost my keycard, can you make me another one? Actually, do you mind giving me two? Just in case.’ He can never tell if they suspect anything because they usually acquiesce with little comment, and so he gives the spare card to Cris so the other man can come and go as he pleases.

When Cris comes in, Fábio’s on the phone with his father. He’s lying face down on the bed, shirt off, resting on his elbows as he listens to his father’s latest fishing story. With all the money Fábio makes, his father doesn’t need to work again for a single day, but he still goes out to sea. It’s all the man knows how to do. And because he goes away a lot, Fábio doesn’t get to talk to him as often as he talks to the rest of his family. Cristiano gets that, just crawls into bed next to him and loops an arm around his waist, pulling him closer and dropping slow kisses on his bare shoulder. Fábio shifts to give Cris some room, and when he looks over at him, Cris just gestures, ‘don’t-worry-about-me,-keep-talking.’ He’s content to just be here with his lover in his arms, letting the other man’s voice drift over him.

Fábio ends his conversation with “Cris says hi” (even though Cris didn’t), and his father gruffly sends Cris a greeting in reply. It’s a bit of a sore subject, his relationship with Cristiano. It’s not that his father doesn’t accept him, because both his parents do, it’s just that they’re both very traditional in their beliefs and still have a hard time getting used to the fact that their youngest son, who himself is a father and who was straight up until two or three years ago, was in a steady relationship with another man. The fact that that man was Cristiano fucking Ronaldo didn’t help them much. Fábio loves his parents all the same, and knows they just need time to get used to it and they would accept him the way his brothers did.

Fábio hangs up and finally twists his body around to face Cris. He takes the man’s face in his hands and leans in, pressing his mouth against those full lips. Cristiano responds eagerly, letting Fábio deepen the kiss. It feels like forever since it’s just been the two of them, no teammates or media or family or anyone to interrupt them.

The same thought must be running through Fábio’s mind, because the kissing gets more frantic and soon Cristiano finds himself on his elbows and knees with Fábio underneath him, who’s rolling his hips up to meet his. Cris chokes down a moan.

 “Wait wait wait,” Cris pants out between kisses, pulling back. Fábio follows him up brushing his lips with his own, half-dazed. “Hang on.”

“What?” Fábio asks impatiently, pulling him down again.

Cris tries to sit up, but he just ends up straddling the other man and pressing his ass right onto Fábio’s erection. The defender moans and his hips jerk up again.

Cristiano flings himself off of Fábio and crawls up next to the headboard. Fábio’s slowly sitting up, utterly confused and absolutely turned on. Cris ignores the other man’s raging boner and his kiss-swollen lips and his messed up hair and-

“I just have to say something, OK?” Cris blurts out before he gets distracted again. Fábio gives him such a blank look that clearly transmits ‘this couldn’t wait until after I got laid?’ but he humors his lover and sits up, pulling his legs in Indian style near the foot of the bed.

Cris sucks in a breath. “I know that we’ve been going through a lot lately. But, I think it feels like we’ve spent so much time dealing with this _and_ on top of that, doing our job, so I feel like I’ve been neglecting you a bit,” Fábio jerks his head up and opens his mouth like he’s about to disagree, but Cris cuts him off, “It might not be true, but that’s what it feels like.”

Fábio’s face softens and he shakes his head, “Don’t be such an idiot, Cris. Come here.” He unfurls his legs and makes room for the other man, but Cristiano doesn’t move.

“I’m not being an idiot,” he answers sternly. “I love you. OK? I just want you to know that.” His face is so serious and earnest at the same time, and Fábio feels a slow smile creeping onto his face.

He sighs like he’s amused, but in his eyes there’s nothing but affection. “I know. I love you too.” He looks into Cris’s eyes as he says it, lets the other man know that he’s serious, that he gets it. “Now come here.”

Cris finally moves from his spot on the other side of the bed and he’s straddling Fábio again, this time with purpose. He lets Fábio rip all of his clothes off of him and leans down to mouth at his tanned neck, kissing and licking patterns on the smooth skin there. Cris sits up on his knees to let Fábio shimmy out of his sweatpants underneath him, and as soon as the other man is naked he grinds down on his lover’s cock, pulling deep, ragged moans from the other man’s throat.

Fábio yanks Cristiano back down by the faux hawk, and Cris moans when he feels his hair pulled. He smirks against Cris’s skin, lips curling around the other man’s earring. So he’s in the mood to be manhandled tonight? Fábio is more than happy to oblige.

**~*~**

Cristiano tries valiantly. He really does.

But the next day at the airport, every time he has to take a seat he can’t help but let out a low hiss of pain as he sits down slowly, gingerly. He resolutely ignores the knowing smirks certain teammates are giving him, as well as the high five Miguel gives Fábio.

That little shit.

  
**~*~**

Cris and Fábio’s free day between the international break and the Liga resumption is spent talking. They lay in bed half the day, just discussing everything that’s been going on. In the span of about two weeks, the life together that they spent two years building and protecting seems like it’s been made exposed and vulnerable, reduced to nothing more than a bargaining chip held over their heads by people with agendas.

They talk in circles and dance around the issue, but in the end, they come to the decision that they’re going to have to compromise a bit if they’re going to try to get back to normality.

When they had first “officially” started their relationship, back in South Africa, they had mentioned, briefly, the subject of coming out. Back then, it was sort of a given that they absolutely never would as long as they were both playing. After all, the scandal it would cause in Portugal and in Spain alone would be sensational: the Real Madrid star and Benfica icon, teammates on the national team, together in a relationship? They immediately agreed to keep it a secret until after they both retired, once their careers were over.  Maybe then they’d reveal everything in a bestselling tell-all or make a quiet announcement or have a surprise lavish ceremony on the shores Portugal, now that same-sex marriages have been made legal there.

The secrecy had lasted two years. Two years of sneaking around in hotel rooms, stolen glances from across the room, quick kisses on the neck after a goal, raising Junior together, carpooling to practice, gentle knee squeezes under tables.

The circumstances have changed, though. Somehow, the club is aware of their relationship (and with Cristiano himself confirming it to Florentino), and now that it’s affecting Fábio’s career, things are different. They decide that right now, their vow of relative secrecy had to end, or at least be amended. The same way they told Pepe, Kaká and Marcelo about them and received their support in return, they know they need to let the team in a little bit.

They’re not going to make a grand announcement in the middle of practice, though. Fábio and Cris are still too cagey, too nervous, too scared to let the entire team know about them. They decide on telling the team captains: Iker, Sergio, and Pipa. These players have the most influence on the team, especially Iker and Sergio. Cris trusts them, too, he knows they’ll keep whatever they tell them quiet and will (hopefully) support them as well.

**~*~**

Their first practice back in Spain isn’t until mid-afternoon, so Cris and Fábio invite Iker, Sergio, Marcelo and Pipita to Cris’s house. Cris also texts Álvaro and tells him to come over (Álvaro had already put himself out there for Cris, and he felt the Spaniard at the very least deserved an explanation). They arrive one by one and as they come in, Cris can see them looking around at his living room, peering into the kitchen. For a few of them it was the first time seeing the house from the inside.

Cris offers them breakfast and they eat it in the kitchen, on the little table in the corner. Fábio comes in halfway through the meal and they all greet him warmly, although Iker sends Cris a questioning look. When Cris called him, he said specifically that this was a ‘team captains only’ matter, and already Fábio and Álvaro are here as well. Cris shoots Iker a smile and looks away, making room for Fábio to sit down. Neither of them have an appetite, and Cris can see that even though Fábio served himself, he’s only just poking at the food with his fork, hardly anything making its way to his mouth. There’s nervousness and dread in Fábio’s body language, the way he holds his fork, the set of his shoulders. He knows he probably looks the same way and tries to smooth out his features into a more relaxed expression (his face is always so damn expressive, a trait that has gotten him into trouble in the past).

They’re all pretty much done eating; almost everyone has already taken their plate to the sink and come back to keep talking. Iker is the one who breaks the slightly awkward atmosphere.

“So, when you called you said you had something important to explain, and you said it was for the captains only. No offense, guys,” Iker adds. Fábio shrugs in response. “So, what’s going on? Why’s everyone here?”

For a split second, Cris wants to just call the whole thing off. Just make up a stupid reason and send everyone home. But instead, he meets Fábio’s eyes, sees the love reflected in them, and he sucks in a breath, steeling himself, “You know I said some things to the media that you all probably heard about-”

“And kept hearing about, over and over,” Pipa jumps in, chuckling.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, guys,” Cristiano says, scratching at his ear. “It really wasn’t meant to involve you or be about you guys. It wasn’t really about the team, even. Or, actually. Yeah, it was about the team. Not the team as in us, more like-“

“Cristiano,” Fábio cuts off his ramble. “Let’s start at the beginning. At the luncheon.”

“Start at the luncheon? Or explain the other thing first?”

“Actually, yeah. Start with the other thing, then explain the lunch.”

The rest of the guys are just staring at them curiously, waiting to hear the reason for all the scandal and the media witch-hunt.  Marcelo, however, had already guessed what Cris and Fábio were about to do. He had a slight encouraging, mischievous smile on his face, his eyes sending them as much support as he could. Cris caught his gaze and held it, the support from his friend relaxing him only marginally.

“OK then, first things first,” Cris says, that churning in his stomach back with a vengeance. He feels almost like he normally does when he was out on the pitch, breathing deep, about to take a penalty. The same adrenaline and hundreds of emotions were running through his veins. He licks his lips out of compulsion, like he always does when he was nervous or put on the spot, and clears his throat.

“First of all, I’m gay,” he said this matter-of-factly, not looking anyone in the eye.

Everyone straightens up at that, because holy hell, that was not what they were expecting at all. Sergio starts choking on his coffee, coughing violently. Iker and Álvaro are doing great impressions of fish, both wide-eyed and open-mouthed, before Iker turns to Sergio and begins to pound on his back. Pipa looks like a man struggling to understand life again after having his worldview blown to hell. Marcelo, bless him, is still smiling, encouragingly.

They’re all a bit silent, almost waiting for the punch line. Once Sergio can breathe properly again, he looks Cris dead in the eye and asks, completely serious, “Gay as in homosexual?”

In Sergio’s point of view, that was a serious question, but it serves to break the pregnant silence as Iker lets out a groan and everyone chuckles quietly.

“Yes, Sergio, as in homosexual,” Cris answers, shaking his head. Sergio nodded, like that was all that he needed to know and Cristiano had a fleeting thought of, ‘why can’t the rest of the world be like you, Sergio?’ Someone lets out a quiet “wow” of disbelief and it makes Cristiano feel uncomfortable under everyone’s stares. His eyes flicker back to Fábio, who sits up, taking his cue. Everyone turns to him, like they just remembered he was in the room too.

“Well, uh, now that everything you know is a lie,” he starts, and Gonzalo laughs at this, sounding a tad hysterical, “I, uh, I’m also gay. As in homosexual,” he adds for Sergio’s benefit.

They all stare dumbly at him and at Cris, slowly connecting the dots.

“So, you both are gay,” Álvaro repeats and they nod, “So then, are you both…” he makes a gesture with his fingers that Fábio guesses is supposed to imply ‘together’ or ‘in a relationship’ or ‘fucking’.

“For two years,” Fábio says, softly. The room is deathly quiet now, the enormity of what is actually going on right now finally seeming to sink in on everyone. It’s not the first time players have come out; it happens now and then. It’s just the first time someone like these two (or specifically, someone like Cristiano) has come out to any of them.

“Two years?” Iker lets out a low whistle, “So even before Madrid, huh?”

“Yeah, before Madrid,” he answers, a soft smile playing at his lips. He knows this conversation has just started, but honestly, it’s going as well as he dared to hope it would.

“So, who else knows?” Iker asks, his stunned expression having given way to a serious, concerned-looking face, and he’s back in captain mode.

“Uh, so far Marcelo-” the guys shoot the Brazilian a glare, who shrugs with a grin, “and Kaká and Pepe,” Cris answers, “also a few in the Selecao. And now Florentino.”

“Florentino? Really? Well, shit.” Álvaro’s statement sums the situation up quite well, actually.

“Yeah, and therein lies the problem,” says Cristiano, “This is actually what we wanted to explain to you guys, the situation we’re having with Florentino.”

“This is the situation that’s making you ‘sad’?” Sergio asks, and Cris nods.

“Yeah,” he glances at Fábio again, clears his throat, and explains the situation the way they did to Pepe and Jorge. Iker and Sergio are nodding, seriously, and listening quietly to every word, pensive. Álvaro is frowning and Pipita sits quietly, listening. Marcelo’s finally lost that smile he had been wearing, brows furrowed and mouth set in a snarl of disbelief.

“Yeah, I can see how that would make you sad,” Sergio quips once everyone is caught up.

Cris sighs, “Yeah. And it’s not like we want any trouble with the club or to start some drama with anyone, but… you know.” He fumbles for words, but Sergio just nods and says “Yeah, I get it.” Cristiano smiles gratefully.

“So, why are you telling us this?” Gonzalo speaks up for the first time since they started talking. “What do you expect us to do?”

Cris is a bit taken aback, “I don’t expect anyone to do anything. I just… I just wanted you guys to be aware of the situation and understand where things are coming from, things that are club issues but not _club_ issues. And also, we’ll, we’re just tired of living like this, you know? It’s… isolating, hiding things and excluding certain people and friends,” he rambles. “We don’t want you to do anything, really, but we just want you guys to understand.” He glances at Fábio, looking for reassurance.

Iker leans forward, “You know I’m with you guys. I can’t speak for the directors and management, but I can tell you that your team is with you guys no matter what. We’re teammates, but we’re also friends.” Sergio is nodding along, and Cris and Fábio can see that they mean it. “And nothing that you guys said here is going to leave this room.” He adds with a tone of finality.

“Thanks, guys. You don’t know how much that means to us,” Fábio says, glancing at Cris, who nods in agreement.

Pipa takes a deep breath, and everyone turns to him expectantly. “I really appreciate the absolute balls that it took for you guys to say this. Really, I do. And I’m honored at the trust you’ve put in us to keep this on the down-low for you. But… I don’t know.” Cristiano and Fábio feel their hearts sinking with the Argentine’s every word.  “I don’t know how to feel about this. I just… And it’s nothing against you! I have nothing against you guys or anyone who is gay,” he clarifies. “I think I just have to get used to it a bit, is all. It’s a bit of a shock.”

“And that’s fine; you have a right to do that. Don’t worry about it.” Cristiano smiles thinly. There’s no ill intent behind Pipa’s words, and after all, it’s _Pipa_. Pipa, who is laid back and easygoing and keeps everyone laughing. He’s not the judgmental type; Cris honestly believes that maybe the striker does need some time to process the new information, even though everyone else seemed to manage just fine.

They head out an hour later, the seven teammates holding a new understanding between them. Cristiano looks at Pipa a bit uneasily but thinks ‘time’. That’s all he needs, time.

**~*~**

Maybe telling the team was not the best idea.

It’s a huge weight off their chests, sure. Walking into the Valdebebas (an hour early, as always) and later seeing the knowing smiles of Álvaro and Marcelo, Iker’s steady look, Sergio’s teasing wink; it was a great feeling, not having to be isolated now. But there’s always a flip side.

That new feeling of loyalty seemed to have been left behind at Cristiano’s breakfast table. There are factions now, within the team and within the management. There are only a handful of players who actually _know_ what’s going on, but everyone’s aware that _something's_ off and that, for some reason, sides are being taken. The dynamic is wrong; there are lines drawn that weren’t there before. Gonzalo is decidedly uncomfortable with his teammates, Cristiano is walking on eggshells around him, and they’re all not sure how to handle that.

It reflects on the pitch. The communication between players is almost nonexistent, and motivation is low. Mourinho looks frustrated, like he can’t understand why his players are not responding, how his players can leave for ten days and come back completely different.

And it must be bad if even the press is catching on. Mundo Deportivo’s headline reads, "División en el Madrid! La tristeza de Ronaldo causa fracturas en la plantilla blanca." It’s the first time that a journal has published something that’s actually halfway true about Cristiano and they don’t even know they’re not making it up.

Punto Pelota spends an hour and fifteen minutes replaying Cristiano’s interactions with his teammates, whom he avoids and does not avoid.

(“See, right here he is clearly turning away from Mesut!”

“You’re right, Lobo, it’s like he doesn’t even want to look the German in his big eyes! What do you think, Roncero?”

“I agree, but look at face he made at Karim!”).

They spend another hour analyzing Cris’s frigid hug with Florentino. They didn’t quite look each other in the eye, and Cris was pulling away from Florentino before the other man had a chance to hug him. Honestly, he didn’t want anything to do with the club president right now; unless Florentino wanted to sit him down and tell him that he wanted to patch things up, Cristiano was content to go on avoiding the man.

Everyone is tiptoeing around each other. From the canteranos to the press, they know there’s something going on within the first team, and whatever it is, they need to resolve it fast before it affects their already terrible start to the season.

**~*~**

The whole team is quiet in the visitor’s locker room after the match against Sevilla.

Even Mourinho was quiet, which both scares and worries Cristiano. When the team loses so spectacularly, so inexplicably, Mourinho usually has a lot to say. This time? Silence. Even after the match in the locker room, Rui and Karanka had done most of the talking with their calm, even voices, leaving the whole team waiting for whatever angry tirade they were going to get from their manager.

They got nothing.

Or, actually, they did get one thing. Once Rui and Aitor had finished speaking and the coaches were leaving the room to let the players change, Mourinho stopped at the doorframe and turned around. He surveyed the room, looking over each and every one of his players, gaze intent and unreadable. He turned back around, shaking his head in disappointment, and left the room.

The click of the door closing made Cristiano’s hair stand on end. He could see why el Míster would be disappointed; too many missed chances, a lack of communication, zero motivation. They can’t even say they gave it their all, because it was obvious that everyone’s mind was on something else. On the Champions League match against City, on Cristiano and Fábio, on the weird atmosphere, on everything but the game.

For Cris, the match came down to one moment in the 93rd minute. He’d earned a free kick and an opportunity to tie the match and salvage a point from this clusterfuck of a night. He'd gone down roughly just before, and scraped a cut onto his arm. He pressed his fingers against the wound and watched the blood gush out, running up toward his elbow, and when he put his arm down, staining his white wristband. He didn’t wipe it away, almost as if to say, _'Let them see I bleed for this shirt, let them try to say I don’t care about this team'_. Cris lines up to take the kick, with 10 seconds left on the clock. Desperate hope is reflected in his teammates’ eyes when he looks up, every one of them praying for a miracle.

  
The ball goes high.

The referee’s whistle marked the end of the game and the Pizjuán erupted in elation. Cristiano can’t even describe what he was feeling at the moment, but he really couldn’t be on the pitch anymore. He mechanically shook the hands of everyone he’s supposed to shake hands with, and high-fived the members of his team that passed him along the way. Gonzalo gave him a look as he passed, and Cristiano might be too drained to try and decipher it, but the blame and tired disappointment in his teammate's eyes was clear, as was the fact that it was directed at him. As soon as was politely possible, he extricated himself from the crowd and headed down the tunnel and out of the field.

Cris blinks, and realizes he hasn’t moved from the bench since Mourinho left, just sat staring at the scabbing cut on his arm. He picks at the little mark, and then gets up to get ready for his shower. Around him, his teammates are talking in hushed tones, as if raising their voices will cause el Míster to come back and deliver the verbal beatdown they had all been expecting, the one they all deserved.

This isn’t his team, this isn’t Real fucking Madrid. Losing 1-0 to Sevilla? Walking on eggshells around each other to avoid the elephant in the room? Even in defeat, they could still find ways to joke and bring up a positive attitude, but this time it was like everyone lacked the energy to even try. Cris feels he’s partially to blame, dropping a bombshell on the most important players on the squad the way he did. But he knows that can’t be the only problem the team is facing.

Maybe it goes beyond him and Fábio, but the issue is the same. There’s too much shit being dragged onto the pitch that is better left at home, and it shows.

 

**~*~**

Mourinho makes an executive decision.

The disastrous loss at Sevilla was the final straw. His job, at the end of the day, was to manage Real Madrid. It’s not his job to deal with his player’s personal drama; it’s the players’ jobs to leave all that shit at home. It’s also not his job to deal with the whims and “suggestions” of a temperamental club president. He can’t work like this, with a team that’s sort of half-divided and half-oblivious, picking sides in a quiet battle half of them don’t even know about.

And besides, it’s his reputation that’s on the line every time Madrid steps out onto the pitch and steps off with another defeat.

**~*~**

El Mister calls his team early to a closed practice, and as they arrive they’re ushered away from the field and into the team’s video review room. The team sits, fidgeting in their rows of chairs while the managers and trainers sit in front of the projector screen, waiting.

Cristiano cringes as he walks in. He really has absolutely no desire to rewatch the match; he’s already been playing it over and over again in his head since he stepped off the pitch. He takes his seat near the back next to Pepe, who fist bumps him in greeting and shoots him a look of “I-know-what-you’re-thinking-and-I-agree”. Fábio trails in a few minutes after, finding the empty seat near Cris and slouching into it. Cris drops a hand onto the left back’s knee, runs his thumb over his kneecap in greeting. They trade glances, conspiratorial, before their attention is called to the front.  
Mourinho sits on his stool wearing his usual training day tracksuit, notebook in hand. “You guys can relax,” he smirks, “we’re not here to watch the match again.” Several players let out a relieved breath. “We’re here to have a talk.” The room goes dead silent and Fábio can feel Cris’s hand tightening around his knee, sees him pull his bottom lip between his teeth.

“The way we played against Sevilla was unacceptable,” the Portuguese continues. “I know you heard my comments to the press, and I want to explain them to you. When I said ‘I have no team’, I meant, ‘this is not the team I know’. The team I know plays hard, fights for every ball, works together, and does not give up until the whistle. This team didn’t show up on Sunday.”

The team shifts guiltily, very few players still meeting Mourinho’s eyes. The older man sighs. “I’m not blind, guys. I know that there have been a lot of things off the pitch that have been distracting some of you. Those of you who are distracted know who you are,” he adds, pointedly.

Half the room glances at Cristiano, a few at Gonzalo.

“I’m not here to point fingers or place blame. If anything, I should place the blame on myself. I shouldn’t have let it get to this point. As your coach, it’s my responsibility to nip these things in the bud before they can grow and infect the team. But yet here we sit, with only four points and Barça eight points ahead.” Heads drop, and a hiss of quiet disappointment rises from somewhere in the team.

The Portuguese continues, “Whoever’s fault it was, yours, mine, no one, it’s unacceptable. I’ve spoken to Florentino,” the manager’s eyes zero in on the back of the room, and he’s speaking directly to Cristiano and Fábio, “and he agrees that it’s time for a change. We can’t carry on the way we have been.”

Fábio and Cristiano share a look, but don’t say a word. Fábio can barely let himself hope that he understands the meaning behind Mourinho’s words.

Mourinho looks back down at the rest of the team, “From now on things are different. The distractions have been dealt with, so I want to begin the season today. I want to see maximum effort, maximum dedication. I want to see _my_ Madrid out here in practice, and out on the pitch on Tuesday. It’s the fucking Champions League, gentlemen.”

A few chuckles bubble up from the team, but the words are clear and everyone is nodding their head in agreement.

“Good. Now that that’s settled, time to move on to the next thing.” Mourinho smiles wickedly.

“Rui, roll the tape.”

 

**~*~**

“Cris.”

Cristiano whirls around and comes face to face with Gonzalo. The Argentine gestures with his head for Cris to go over to him. He follows him down a hallway away from their team. He stops once they’re out of earshot, and Cristiano holds his breath.

“OK, I was kind of an idiot,” Gonzalo starts, “and I only told Ángel because he pressured me.”

All the breath rushes out of Cristiano. “Ángel?! Are you serious?” Cristiano fumes, disbelieving. “Nothing was supposed to leave the room!”

“I know,” Gonzalo starts again, holding his hands out in a gesture meant to calm the Portuguese, “And I wasn’t going to say anything. But Ángel overheard Sergio and Álvaro saying something about you and Fábio, and he asked me about it. I wasn’t going to tell him, but he has his ways,” he answers sheepishly, looking apologetic.

Cristiano looks at him, still unable to believe that the secret he and Fábio held closest to their hearts is being tossed around so carelessly. “Well,” he fumbles, “He hasn’t talked to anyone, has he?”

“Uhm, well,” Cristiano feels his heart sink, “I think he mentioned it to Raúl. I’m not sure. I saw them talking and it looked like… Well I’m sure he hasn’t told any more people.”

Cristiano stares at him dumbly. How is it that his club is no better than gossiping old ladies, spreading around the latest bit of news? The latest news about him and Fábio, no less. He makes a mental note to speak to Raúl.

Gonzalo straightens up. “But that’s actually not what I brought you here to say.” He draws a deep breath. “Listen, I said I was an idiot, and it’s true. I was kind of an idiot when you and Fábio came out to me and the guys.”

Cris shakes his head. “No, don’t worry about it. You were fine, it’s OK that you needed some time-”

“Well, no,” Gonzalo cuts him off and Cristiano’s jaw clicks closed, “it wasn’t just that. It was, well, when you told us… You know…” Gonzalo can’t form the sentences right now, even though he already had planned what he would say. Cris gives him a measuring look, and then sighs.

“Look, Pipa, it’s fine. Really. I knew that if I came out there would be people who would change their opinion about me, and people might not like me anymore.” Gonzalo looks like wants to interject, but Cristiano keeps going, eyes distant. “It’s the truth, and it’s fine. We’re still teammates, I guess.”

Gonzalo speaks up, finally, “It’s not like that.” Cristiano’s eyes snap up to meet the Argentine’s. “I have no problem with that. I told you I have no problem if you or Fábio or anyone is gay. I don’t care.”

“Then what? You said you needed time, but you say now you don’t care. What’s the problem?”

“The problem? The problem is not you. Or Fábio,” he quickly adds. He rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. “I think the problem might actually have been me.”

Cristiano blinks. “You?”

He sighs again. “I had never put much thought to having gay players on the team,” he starts, speaking slowly. “The other day, that was actually the first time anyone had come out to me, ever. So now, suddenly, there’s two gay players on the team, and you’ve been gay and hiding it for about as long as I’ve known you, right?” The Portuguese nods. “Right. So then I just started thinking of who else might be gay, too.” Cristiano winces, but lets his teammate continue. “And so I started thinking, ‘Damn, I can’t imagine having to hide something as huge as that.’ And then I thought, ‘Damn, what if I was gay?’”

And suddenly, it’s all so clear to Cristiano. “And you’ve never asked yourself that question.”

Gonzalo shakes his head. “I’ve never had a reason to,” he shrugs. “So now, I was asking myself that question. And I was… scared? Of what the answer was going to be.”

Cristiano’s eyes grow wide. Honestly, beyond the effect that it would have on himself and his family, he hadn’t thought too much about how coming out would affect the members of his team. Carefully, he asks, “Did you find out the answer?”

Gonzalo smiles ruefully. “Well… the jury is still out on that, apparently.” Cristiano’s eyebrows shoot up. “Don’t… Don’t tell anyone. I’m pretty sure the answer is ‘I’m not,’ but I want to be completely sure. It’s pretty fucking important, as you know.”

“Don’t worry Pipa. _I_ don’t tell anyone other people’s secrets. _Ahem_.” Cristiano smirks, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Gonzalo smacks him upside the head and then says, “Sorry about that. The secret, I mean. Not your head.” Cris laughs.

“So long story short, I had a hard time processing, and then I was a dick. And I’m also sorry for that. So, we’re good?” he looks at Cristiano, stretching out his hand.

Cris nods and takes it. “Yeah, we’re all good.” They shake hands and it strikes Cris as such an odd situation; he’s shaking on a peace treaty with Gonzalo in an empty corridor at Valdebebas, holding this new secret between them.

The Argentine peers at him strangely. “Do we need to hug it out now, or…?”

Cris laughs, “No, we can leave it at that.”

Gonzalo pulls him into a hug anyways.

  
**~*~**

There’s a noticeable change in Real Madrid from there forward. Everyone is surprised at how the vibe on the team has completely turned around. Everyone but the people in the club. They knew how important it was for team unity to have all of their key players sharing the same mindset. The captains and Cristiano (who has just as much influence, if not more, sometimes, than his captains) are finally showing a united front, not just to the world who doubts them, but to their own team as well.

Their next match against City is a must-win, and when the winning goal was scored, at the very last minute, it was like a dam had burst. All the nerves, all the adrenaline, all the emotion poured out from the whole team. Cristiano is sprawled out on the grass of the Bernabéu as his team mates crush around him, yelling and laughing, and if he turns his head he can see his manager and the bench doing the same thing a few meters away.

For Cris, that game-winning goal is not just for Real Madrid. It’s for himself, too. It’s to prove to himself that he is, in fact, the same Cristiano. That he can keep scoring no matter what; no matter who knows what, no matter who says what. That even if his world seems like it gets flipped upside down every few days, he still has one thing that doesn’t change.

This right here won’t ever change.

 

**~*~**

The media spends most of their time making up issues to discuss at length. Most of them have developed a sudden interest in gauging Cristiano’s moods after every match, but Cristiano doesn’t bite. Quickly the topic of “Cristiano’s sadness” is replaced by “Iker doesn’t celebrate goals” and “Sergio defies Mou” and assorted bullshit. The team has a good laugh about it during practice.

Fábio even sees rumors popping up about him and his status at Madrid. He sees half a paragraph about a possible trade involving him in ‘Marca’ and even though he knows it must be utter lies, it still leaves him with an uneasy feeling in his chest. In the back of his mind, he thinks that maybe he and Cris have crossed Florentino one too many times. He wouldn’t put it past the man to ‘eliminate the problem’, so to speak. And indeed, they still haven’t directly spoken to the man outside of official functions since Cristiano’s final conversation with him.

He doesn’t voice any of his worries to Cristiano yet, after all, there’s no concrete basis for the rumors. He does, however, call his agent Jorge and mentions it to him. Jorge assures him that nothing’s been put on the table yet, and that if there is, he will fight for Fábio as hard as he can. The man’s words put him more at ease, but he still can’t shake that feeling of dread.

                          

**~*~**

  
Madrid travels to Manchester in late November for the away leg of their Champions League clash, and Cristiano is hit with a sense of familiarity so strong it’s almost crippling. He’ll always have a soft spot for his old team, United, and for this crazy city and its fans who defended him and chanted his name. He won’t really admit that there are days, usually rainy days, when he sometimes still thinks about Manchester and the six years he spent there. But all he has to do is look around now, at the bus full of some of his closest friends, loyal teammates, and he remembers that it all worked out; he made the right move.

As the bus drives through the city, Cristiano points out some memorable spots, and roads.

(“See that road down there? That’s where I crashed my Ferrari, down in one of those tunnels. Completely totaled it.” Fábio cringes, picturing it, as Pepe and Marcelo laugh at Cristiano, teasing him about his bad luck with expensive cars.)

(“If you turn off on this exit right back there, way out into the countryside is where my house used to be, in Cheshire.”)

(“You go down Wimslow, then Exit M56, then exit at Chester, left on Wharfside and then take a left on John Gilbert,” Cristiano recites from memory.

“OK, and then where am I?” Fábio asks, smiling curiously.

“You’re at Old Trafford.”)

This time around, their win against City is much more routine.

Fábio even comes on for Álvaro in the 60th minute. He’s been playing more now that Mourinho and Florentino had their little discussion and his injuries have healed up. Even still, he knows to relish every minute that he gets to play, those long games at the start of the season still vivid in his mind.

Álvaro hugs him as he comes off, sweaty and musky, and shouts in his ear, “Go set the place on fire, bro!” Fábio shakes his head bemusedly as he jogs out to his spot.

Karim is the one to score the only goal of the game, but it was from a team play and a perfect Ronaldo assist, cutting in from the left wing and sitting beautifully, just begging to be blasted into the back of the net. The Real Madrid and Man United supporters go nuts, the visiting team’s sections a mess of red and white scarfs and flags waving in the stands.

Cristiano can hear his old chant, too, coming up from the visitors’ seats. He grins, and holds his hand up to wave at the visitors, the Madrid fans and the United fans that bought their tickets to troll City. He thinks of that moment for the rest of the match, and has “Viva Ronaldo, Viva Ronaldo!” stuck in his head until the whistle is blown _._

**~*~**

The team celebrates in the locker room; their victory here means they’re pretty much assured to be out of the group stages. They just need to win again against Ajax at home, but with the points they’ve amassed, qualification’s a done deal.

Fresh from his shower, dressed, hair immaculately gelled, Cristiano steps out of the locker room, ready to face the media. Before he barely gets out of the door, he stops short. Right next to the visitors’ locker room door stands one of the last people Cristiano expected to see.

“Surprise,” the man mumbles with a smirk, blue eyes twinkling.

“Wayne!” Cristiano exclaims, going to embrace his former teammate. “What are you doing here, mate?”

“I came to watch ya, mate. Well, better said, I came to watch City get their arses handed to ‘em, but I also came to watch ya play.” 

“Always is fun to watch City get their asses beat, right?” Cristiano laughs.

“Especially that.”

Players are coming out of the locker room behind them as they chat, some of the guys patting Cristiano on the back and nodding to Wayne as they pass. They don’t talk for too long; Cristiano asks Wayne about his son and his child on the way, how the team is doing and everything. Wayne talks in that familiar slurred mumble that Cristiano has to strain to understand, but after years of spending time with him he’s quite used to that heavy Liverpool accent.

“Well, I know ya gotta be goin’ now, so I don’t want to hold you up too long,” Wayne says. “Good job out there, again, Ronnie. Take care of yourself,”

“Thanks, mate. Take care of yourself too, Wazza. Don’t get injured again,” Cristiano jokes with a grin.

The shorter man smiles bashfully. He looks up at Cris, gives him a look that makes Cris’s smile falter. “You look good, Ronnie,” he says, and Cris laughs. “I mean it mate, ya look good; you look like yer happy.”

Cristiano smiles, not that big camera-ready smile, but the small smile he reserves for friends and people who know him well. “I am happy. I’m really happy.” He thinks of Fábio, who passed behind him with a smirk a minute ago, of his son and his family, of his team’s victory here and their standing in the Liga. It’s true; he is happy.

“S’good. S’real good. You’re no fun when you’re sad.”

They say their goodbyes and Cristiano’s grin lasts him all the way through the mixed zone, through the bus ride, and through the flight home until he falls asleep.

 

**~*~**

They get home and it’s freezing outside. They leave all of their luggage in the trunk and sprint from Cristiano’s car to the door.  Fábio’s teeth chatter while Cristiano fumbles to enter the unlock code with his quickly numbing fingers. Cris finally gets the door open and they both rush in, Fábio pushing past the winger and running, disappearing down a hallway while Cris laughs behind him.

Cris pulls his sleeves down farther over his wrists and blows on his hands to get the feeling back. He heads into the hallway and sets the temperature warmer before wandering about in search for Fábio.

He doesn’t have to look far. There’s a brightly colored adidas sneaker in the middle of the hallway by the door to their bedroom. The door’s half open, and Cris walks in, chuckling. He trips over the second sneaker and hisses a curse. He hears a muffled “sorry” and Cristiano looks around before spotting the bundle of sheets in the middle of the bed. He has the sudden urge to jump on top of it and he does just that, splaying his limbs everywhere as he tackles Fábio. The bundle under him groans, letting out a muffled “oof” and then “asshole”. Cris gets off and starts pulling sheets off until he finds a shock of gelled blonde hair beneath it all.

“I’m still cold, you jerk. Leave me alone,” Fábio huffs and tries to pull the comforter back over his head. Cris laughs and kisses the part of the sheets where Fábio’s head is. He takes off his shoes and tosses them in a corner, and then removes his shirt, leaving his sweatpants on. He crawls back in bed, and starts pulling at the sheets again, only this time he gets under them. Fábio whines in protest but Cris makes it to the middle of the warm cocoon where his lover is laying curled up. He pulls the man into his arms, and Fábio hisses and his skin breaks out in goose bumps when their skin meets.

“I’m gonna keep you warm, lover,” Cristiano says into Fábio’s hair as he burrows in tighter. “You know what they say about skin-to-skin contact,” he leers.

Fábio rolls his eyes. “You say romantic things, but you only have one thing in mind.”

“Noooo! I’m exhausted, anyways. I’ll just keep you warm, I swear.” He says this while he closes his eyes and deepens his breaths, as if to prove to Fábio that yes, he is just here to sleep, believe it or not. But in all honesty, he’s not that tired. He’s actually still a little bit hyper, still keyed up from the travelling and the caffeine he drank on the flight home.

Fábio hums and accepts Cristiano’s reply, eyelids drooping again. They finally settle together in the silence of their bedroom, the only noises heard being each other’s breaths and the ‘tic-tic-tic’ of Cristiano’s watch. The winger fidgets, still too awake to be anywhere near falling asleep.

“’If I lay here,’” Cris starts singing, high pitched and off-key, too loud in the quiet room. Fábio groans. “’If I just laaaaaay here, would you lie wiiiiith me and just forget the world?”

“Really Cris?” Fábio grumbles. “We were having a nice moment there. Why’d you have to go ruin it?”

“What, you don’t like my singing, ‘aaaamor miiiio’?” Cristiano laughs and Fábio cringes away from him.

“My ears are bleeding. Make it stop.” Fábio whines, screwing his eyes shut.

Cristiano takes a deep breath. “’If I lay here-’” he starts again, repeating the only lines he knows of the English song.

Fábio’s had enough, and for the sake of his ears he takes action. He cranes a hand around behind him and finds Cris’s mouth, covering it. Cristiano continues to sing regardless, voice muffled and still loud. Finally he runs out of words he knows (thank god), and a few seconds later Fábio feels something slimy leave a wet stripe across his palm.

“Ew, Cris, seriously?” Fábio glares over his shoulder at the other man as he wipes the saliva off on the bed sheet, Cristiano laughing behind him. “How old are you? I swear, _Junior_ is more mature than you,” he admonishes, but he’s smiling amusedly as he speaks.

“Well, I was done singing, but you wouldn’t let go,” Cris grins against Fábio’s clothed shoulder. He presses a kiss into the fabric in apology. In the dark of the room he can still see the little hairs on his lover’s neck stand on end, even though by now Fábio surely couldn’t still be cold. Fábio mumbles something (Cristiano only catches the word ‘immature’) and Cristiano shushes him, pulling him back against his chest.

Fábio drifts off after a while, Cris notices the way the muscles in his back loosen up, his breaths deepening to a raspy rumble. He still can’t sleep; his thoughts keep jumping all over the place. He keeps thinking about the match earlier, and about the chants. About the things Wayne said to him. About how hot it is under the covers now, about the way the little bit of light from the streetlamps outside makes Fábio’s skin look. About how he’d do anything to keep this forever: this quiet, this dark room, this beautiful man in his arms, this unshakeable feeling of peace.

These moments he doesn’t share with anyone but Fábio; moments like this are just for him. He’ll guard this fiercely, lock it away in his heart, and no matter what anyone may take away from him, he’ll have this forever, right here in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Ironically, of all people, it’s Iker that gets them found out.

He didn’t do it on purpose, of course. They were on their way back from Valladolid and the whole team was piled onto the bus, sleepy but loose-limbed from the victory earlier. Iker couldn’t really sleep; he was too keyed up even though the bus was quiet, everyone else was already snoozing or silently listening to music on their headphones. It made him laugh, seeing the contrast between this group of boys that had been so rowdy in the locker room and the ones peacefully sleeping now. He grabbed the phone he had been texting Sara with and got up on his knees in his chair, hitting record and narrating quietly.

Fábio and Cris were sitting together, like they did sometimes. To the rest of the team who didn’t know any better, the pair became instant friends when the blond arrived to Real, both having known each other on the national team. The world saw them as just another “Real Madrid bromance”, and the two were content to leave it at that.

Tonight, though, maybe it was the thrill of another victory thrumming through their veins that made them careless, or maybe it was the quiet of the bus that lulled them into a false sense of security. Either way, they slipped up.

The rest of the world smiled when they saw that Iker had uploaded another video to Facebook. They saw Álvaro listening to music, quietly tweeting and blinking away sleep. They saw Sami and Mesut sitting together, Sami sprawled out in sleep while Mesut stared out the window, headphones on. They saw Pepe and Marcelo watching a video on Pepe’s laptop. They saw Xabi reading a book on his iPad.

And they saw Fábio and Cris sitting together, like they did sometimes, Cris sound asleep and using Fábio as a pillow. Except this time, they also saw how Fábio held Cris’s hand in his, fingers intertwined, thumb lightly soothing over knuckles. They saw him drop a lingering, absent-minded kiss on the Maderian’s brow as he turned back to stare out the window, listening to his music, their hands together in his lap.

It only showed them for a few seconds before the camera swung away to Karim and Raphaël, and then zoomed in on Sergio.

That was all it took.

 

**~*~**

(Álvaro was the first to realize what had happened. He saw that suddenly “Fábio Cris” was the number one trending topic on Twitter, and that “video de Iker” and “CR7” were also trending. He clicked on the number one topic, curious as to what his teammates had done this time. His jaw dropped when he saw the screencaps from Iker’s video and the .gifs that someone had made of the moment.)

 

**~*~**

Usually when they arrived at Valdebebas this late they were greeted by a small-ish group of diehard fans and a handful of press. Tonight, before they even reached their training ground, the reporters were out in full force, completely outnumbering the fans, shouting and yelling incoherently. There were so many that they blocked the path of the bus and it had to inch along carefully.

By now everyone was awake or waking up to the chaos outside, wondering what was going on. They checked their phones, looking through all their missed calls and texts, slowly realizing the reason for the media circus outside. They snuck furtive glances at Fábio and Cris, their eyes a mix of surprise and concern.

Cris and Fábio were sitting up in their seats, pointedly not touching anywhere. Fábio was busy frantically texting Jorge, who was in Lisbon. Cristiano was busy nervously biting his nails; his phone had blown up as soon as the video had been uploaded (it’s how _he_ found out about it in the first place) but now he suddenly feels drained of the energy necessary to sift through all the messages.

Iker bolted out of his seat and hurried to the back part of the bus where Cris and Fábio sat. He grabbed the nearest empty seat, the one across the aisle from Cris. It gets less dark as he sits down, and he belatedly realizes it’s from the light of dozens of camera flashes from outside.

“Sara texted me,” he blurted out, covering his mouth with his hand, but the guilty, stricken look on his face was clear.

“Jorge just texted us,” Cris replied tersely, not meeting his eyes. Fábio made a move to lift his hand, to rest it on the back of Cris’s neck and stroke away the tension. This was the voice that Fábio hated, the ‘no-I’m-not-OK-but-I’ll-put-on-a-strong-face-and-pretend-that-I-am’ voice. But out of the corner of his eye he could see Karim, headphones on but music off, facing forward and pretending he wasn’t trying to listen in, and Morata glancing back at them and quickly looking away. Fábio dropped his hand.

“I-I deleted the video. I’m really sorry guys, I didn’t even think to check it, I thought you were sleeping too, Fábio,” he fumbles out his words, sounding nothing like the confident captain who instructed them from the goal only a few hours ago. They can both tell he’s being honest and that he really didn’t mean it, but that’s not exactly the issue right now.

“Thanks Iker,” Fábio replies when it becomes obvious Cris isn’t going to say anything. “We can talk later, OK? Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Iker nods, looking away. He goes to stand up, but then sits back down and leans forward. “I’m on your side, guys,” he whispers, “I said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m with you guys, OK? No matter what.” Fábio jerks a nod and manages a thin smile while Cris just stares at his Gucci shoes, completely tense.

Iker finally gets up and walks back to his own seat, the whole bus watching him out of the corners of their eyes as he makes his way toward the front.

 

**~*~**

 

They _could_ still play it off, Jorge Mendes tells them. They could always say it’s a Portuguese thing; just some _beijinhos_ between two friends, not a big deal. They could put a spin on this, then never comment on it again. Jorge outlines them a plan of contingency in three phases: refuting the implications in the video, completely avoiding each other, and after a to-be-determined amount of time, slowly phasing in normal public interactions.

Fábio shares a look with Cristiano. He looks into his lover’s deep brown eyes and can immediately tell what the other man is thinking. Jorge is explaining a possible statement for Facebook, but Fábio and Cris are having their own conversation, eyes locked and searching. More hiding? More carefully planning their every move? More of _this_? Fábio is shakes his head and Cris’s lip quirks into a smile, small and nervous.

“It wouldn’t even need to be a serious statement; you could make a joke out of-”

Cristiano cuts him off, “Actually, Jorge, we were thinking something else.”

Jorge frowns, “What were you thinking? If you make it too serious the press will think there’s some truth behind it.”

“Let them.”

“W-what?” Jorge sputters, speechless.

“Let them know the truth. Let’s _tell_ them the truth.” He has to bite down at his lip to contain his smile, he sneaks a glance at Fábio and sees the other man do the same, eyes crinkling and pulling the corners of his lips down to try to hide his grin.

“You mean, actually come out? Do you even understand what that means? What that will do to you guys?” Jorge is pleading, and Cris has known him long enough to know he’s not trying to dissuade them; he’s just the worrying type. “Think about your careers, think about your images. Are you absolutely sure you want to change your whole lives just for this?”

“‘This _is_ my life,” Cris replies, just as earnest. “’This,’” he gestures to Fábio with his free hand, “ _is_ my life. I’m completely sure.” The tops of Fábio’s cheeks go red at Cris’s statement, and he ducks his head and squeezes the other man’s hand tighter.

“I’m sure, too. I’ve never been more sure, Jorge,” Fábio agrees.

Jorge tries a different approach, “Are you absolutely, one hundred percent sure, Fábio? Think for a second: you’re not in the same position as Cris, so to speak. This would define you. Do you really want Fábio Coentrão to be known around the world as some kind of male WAG, just ‘Cristiano Ronaldo’s boyfriend’?”

Fábio looks up to meet Cris’s eyes. ‘Cristiano Ronaldo’s boyfriend.’ It gives him goosebumps. Everyone would know this is the man he loves, the man he shares a life with, the most important person in his world. Maybe not everyone would approve, but at least they would _know_. The thought makes his eyes blurry, and he blinks away prickling tears.

“I would want nothing more than for the world to know me as ‘Cristiano Ronaldo’s boyfriend,’” he replies, gazing at his lover the whole time. Cris looks away, blinking quickly and biting his lip, and Fábio’s never been more sure about anything in his life.

**~*~**

> ** EL PAÍS **
> 
> ****
> 
> “WE’RE HAPPY TOGETHER”: RONALDO AND COENTRÃO CONFIRM HOMOSEXUALITY RUMORS
> 
> In an exclusive interview with SIC’s Daniel Oliveira, Cristiano Ronaldo and Fábio Coentrão break their silence and confirm to the Portuguese press the rumors of their homosexuality. The admission comes as a shock for fans of Portuguese Ronaldo, who are used to seeing the world’s most expensive footballer with a bevy of supermodels on his arm. 
> 
> But even more shocking was the admission that he was in a relationship with left back Fábio Coentrão. The two have been teammates in Real Madrid since 2010 and have played for years in the Portuguese national team, representing their home country in the 2010 World Cup and the 2012 European Championships.
> 
> According to Coentrão, the timing of their coming out was “hastened by the media attention, but was always the plan.” On December 9th, a video posted to Facebook by Real Madrid goalkeeper Iker Casillas inadvertently captured the couple in a private moment. The video was taken down half an hour later, but not before it had made the rounds on the internet and Spanish media. On Twitter, the words “video de Iker” (“Iker’s video”) and “Fábio Cris” were the top trending topics for over a day afterward. All members of Real Madrid reverted to last season’s ‘Law of Silence’, refraining from commenting to the media and one team member, Sergio Ramos, even cancelled the press conference portion of his Nike sponsor event.
> 
> However, although the revelation is surprising, Ronaldo is quick to assure his fans that he is still the same CR7. “We’re both just two normal guys, we haven’t changed. I’m still Cristiano Ronaldo, he’s still Fábio Coentrão. There’s no big difference, only maybe now you [the media] know something you didn’t know before about us. But we haven’t changed. We’re very happy together and we’re blessed to be able to play football [for a living], as before,” The pair stated they’ve been involved for over two years.
> 
> With this admission, Ronaldo and Coentrão become two of the very few, if any, actively playing footballers to announce their homosexuality. And with over 50 million fans on Facebook and 15 million followers on Twitter, Ronaldo is by far the most high profile athlete to come out.
> 
> Members of the gay community hope that this might inspire other gay athletes to make the same move and come out. With an estimated 1 in every 40 people being homosexual or bisexual, the hope is that some more top footballers can feel able to come out and send a positive message of acceptance to their fans, especially their younger ones.

 

 

**~*~**

Cristiano’s been ignoring his phone for hours.

It had been going off for hours straight, ever since the SIC interview was broadcasted and the story broke. His personal phone actually crashed twice with all of the people who were trying to contact him, whether it was to send support, or to express their disbelief or disgust. Cristiano really didn’t want to deal with any one of them right now. He mutes the ringer on his Blackberry and lets it vibrate in his sock drawer where he’s stashed it.

His business phone’s been going off every couple of minutes, though. He’s got the iPhone in his hands and he twirls it around, fiddling with it. It vibrates in his hands as he’s playing with it, and he checks the display. The name of his Nike liaison flashes on the screen, the way it has been doing for the past hour or two, every forty minutes or so. Blankly, he ignores the call and goes back to fiddling with his phone and staring at his shoes, eyes unseeing.

Florentino’s name had popped up on his screen one time, two hours ago. Cris was about to answer it when at that moment Junior tripped on a toy fire truck and fell to the floor in tears. By the time Cris calmed his son down, patched him up, “put the fire truck in time-out”, and put a magic healing power on Junior’s knee (a secret remedy consisting of _beijos de pai_ and a silly children’s rhyme), the call was gone. There were 9 missed calls and about 15 new emails, though, and Cristiano just did not feel like putting in that much effort.

Cris’s whole strategy at the moment is this: 1) hide in his house, and 2) let it blow over. Fábio is doing pretty much the same at his place now, Skyping his family and talking to Andreia. The interview was broadcasted in the morning, before either Cris or Fábio had awoken, and now Cris wishes they had planned ahead a bit. He imagines Fábio is a little bit lonely in the house by himself again, but he doesn’t want to risk walking outside to the other man’s house when there could be photographers and psychos outside his front gate, and especially not when he’s with Junior.

Jorge calls about a half hour later, sounding harried. His agent explained to him that he had been on the phone all day, deflecting calls and speaking to Cristiano’s sponsors and re-familiarizing himself with the finer points of Cristiano’s contracts, as well as packing for his flight down from England.

Cris mentions, inanely, that Nike called, and before Cris is even done speaking Jorge is already explaining to him that Nike is secure and the American brand wanted to contact them over how best to approach the subject while still showing their support. Cris let out a breath he just realized he was holding; in the back of his mind, although he knew it was unlikely, he had been worried about his Nike deal, and the sense of shame that would come along with losing his lifelong sponsor over something like this. Jorge reassures him that most of his sponsors are still secure (“What do you mean ‘most?’” “Well, Konami is still up in the air, but I’m working on it, don’t worry about it.”).

“Oh and one last thing, the reason I called,” Jorge continues, “Florentino sent me an email, he says neither you nor Fábio are answering your phones (and I don’t blame you guys) and he wants to meet you at his office in the Bernabéu in about an hour.”

Cris feels his stomach sink. “Did he say what for?”

“No, he didn’t say much, just to pass the information along. But you already know what it’s about. Just listen to what he has to say, don’t get emotional, and see if you guys can resolve your issues.”

“Do you… do you think-”

Jorge cuts him off, already knowing what was on Cris’s mind. “No. Not at all. Don’t worry about that, I doubt Florentino has the balls to do anything but try to tell you he’s on your side. Don’t worry about it,” he repeats. Jorge always knows what to say to calm Cris down. His agent continues, “I’ll call Fábio and give him the update too, but just make sure that when you guys go, drive there together and leave together. In case there’s media there, you know. You two need to be showing a united front. Ok?”

Cris rolls his eyes and nods, then says “Ok, fine,” when he remembers Jorge can’t see him. He hangs up with his agent and sighs. Even though the man had reassured him that nothing bad would happen with Florentino, there was still that niggle in the back of his mind that told him to worry.

  
 **~*~**

It’s been months since he’s been in this room, Cristiano muses as he looks around at Florentino’s familiar _despacho_. Fábio is looking around too, a little bit awed, and Cristiano remembers that it’s probably been a lot longer for him, since before summer, probably. Before any of this shit went down. A scale model of the new Bernabéu sits in the middle of the room and they take a minute to look it over, discuss the pros and cons of suggested remodels.

They grab the two chairs in front of Florentino’s desk and push them together a little bit, with conspiratorial smiles, before they take a seat and wait.

Florentino comes into the room much like he did so many weeks ago: looking flustered and innocuous, on his phone saying final goodbyes to someone, Cristiano recognizing the name of the team’s press secretary.

Cris and Fábio stand up out of respect, the way they were raised to, and when Florentino hangs up the phone, they each shake his hand. The older Spaniard claps them on the shoulder amicably.

“Sit down, sit down you two,” he invites with a sweeping gesture toward his desk. He sits at the large leather chair and the two Portuguese take a seat across from him.

“So… busy day for you two, no?” Florentino smiles, and Cris’s eyebrow twitches. “I assume Mendes spoke to you?” Pérez looks like he is not going to waste time with small talk, this time around.

“Yeah, he told us you had something to discuss with us,” Cris answers flatly. “And judging by… recent events I think I have an idea of what.”

“Yes, recent events,” the Spaniard says wryly, “I’ve read your interview and spoken to your agent. I wanted to tell you that, all past actions aside, I commend you two for the courage you showed when you decided to come out. I know we’ve had our differences on this issue before, but I wanted to tell you two that you have the support of the club.”

Fábio and Cris stare at him blankly, before exchanging glances. This… was not what they had been expecting. They weren’t exactly sure why Florentino had called them, but in the back of their minds they were thinking the worst. Fábio in particular took a long look at the nine Champions League trophies lined up in their case on the way toward Pérez’s office, as if it would be the last time he’d ever see them.

Fábio speaks up. “Well, th-thank you for the support,” he starts in hesitant Spanish. “But I want to know, why you say this now, not before?” Cris nods in agreement, giving Pérez a hard look, sharp and expectant.

Florentino sighs and lifts a hand to rub at his forehead. “Well, see, there was a bit of confusion at the beginning, mostly on my part. I wasn’t too sure what was going on with you and Cristiano, even when I spoke to you earlier in the season. I wasn’t sure if it was serious, if it was a whim, and I didn’t want to compromise the club over something that could have been a passing phase.” Cris frowns, because he remembers very clearly explaining to Florentino that Fábio was _not_ a whim, that they were together, and that it was serious. Florentino goes on, “Now that we, Real Madrid, know how serious you are about each other and especially now that you’ve made it public, we want to show our support for you.”

Fábio nods, slowly, like he’s not sure he’s satisfied with the answer but will accept it anyways. Cristiano, however, is still not accepting it.

“Really? Is that why?” Cris asks, slowly, and Florentino narrows his eyes. “Or is it because now that we’ve come out and everyone knows, if Real Madrid does anything other than support us you’ll end up looking like homophobes, and with nothing to hang over our heads now you have no choice?” Florentino blinks and Fábio’s eyes widen like the thought hadn’t really occurred to him yet.

 “Listen,” the older man starts again, with a placating tone in his voice, “I don’t care if you are homosexual, or straight, or an alien, or a Catalan,” Cris lets out a startled laugh, “All that matters to me is that you are a Real Madrid player. When you wear the crest, that means that you do what’s best for the team, and in turn, the Real Madrid institution protects you no matter what. I, on behalf of the institution, am telling you that Real is behind you with this. Regardless of what you think about it, you’ve got the club’s support. And,” he looks between the two of them, “whether you accept it or not, I want to extend an apology for what happened earlier in the season. I want us to be able to start over and move forward together, amicably.”

Cristiano and Fábio share another look, and Fábio nods with a slight shrug. Cris gets the feeling; in times like these, where he’s going to need any ally he can get, there’s no reason to let pride get in the way of a reconciliation with the president of his club. He gives Florentino a tight smile and shakes the man’s proffered hand. It’s not so much a peace treaty as it is a ceasefire, and Cris hopes that, like Florentino said, they really can move forward together amicably.

**~*~**

 They’ve got two games left in La Liga before they break for Christmas. The first is against Espanyol at the Bernabéu, and the second is against Málaga, away. Mourinho keeps pressing them for the six points; they need to win both of their matches or Barcelona will add on even more to their 8-point lead.

There’s a mob of photographers waiting around Valdebebas every day when they come to practice. There are throngs and throngs of them and their loud, sharp, clicking and shouted queries are distracting even to players. All the media makes Mourinho angry and he wants to close the practices to the media, but Florentino and the press team don’t let him. They say the press is good for Cristiano and Fábio. Mourinho shoots the Portuguese players a withering glare (causing the shutter clicks to increase exponentially) and turns his back on the reporters and shouts to everyone “line up!”

 

**~*~**

 

While he sees a lot more banners with his name on them, the reception he gets on his home pitch at the Bernabéu is pretty tepid. There are clusters of fans chanting his name, but there are also clusters who are whistling. Mostly the crowd feels like it’s indecisive, like they’re not too sure what to make of the “new Cristiano” on the field in front of them, and they’re waiting for something to sway their opinion.

“Something” happens early on in the game, in the 39th minute of the first half. Cristiano runs into a beautiful pass from Luka, dribbles up the wing past two defenders and reaches the box. He takes a split second to glance around and survey the area, locating all the lime green shirts ( _four of them_ ) and the fewer white shirts around him ( _Higuaín, Khedira_ ). In that split second he sees Gonzalo’s lost his defender and Cris now has two choices: get around the gaggle of Espanyol defenders and see if he can create a goal chance for himself, or pass the ball and see what Gonzalo will do with it.

And since it’s Sunday, and since Cristiano woke up in an altruistic mood today, Cristiano gives generosity a shot. Gonzalo takes that shot, nails it into the back of the net, actually.

Gonzalo whirls around and points at Cris, grinning like a maniac and running toward him. He jumps on the Portuguese, wrapping passer in a bear hug, and says something that Cristiano can’t quite hear over the screams of the overjoyed crowd. By the time Gonzalo pulls away, the rest of their teammates have arrived to celebrate with him, but he keeps an arm across Cris’s shoulders the whole time. He keeps pointing to Cris as if he was the one to have scored, as if he was telling the Bernabéu, _This guy?_ _He’s still the same Ronaldo; he’s always been the same Ronaldo._

The Bernabéu is on its feet celebrating the early lead, jumping and cheering for Gonzalo and Cristiano alike, and the crowd seems like they’ve made up their mind pretty quickly. For now.

 

**~*~**

 

The only positive thing Real Madrid takes from the match against Málaga is three points.

The awaiting Málaga fans are rowdy even before Madrid makes it into La Rosaleda. Before the team even makes it off the bus, there’s a security detail waiting for Cristiano and Fábio. They need it, too, because as soon as Fábio steps out the crowd gathered there goes nuts, whistling and heckling. Cristiano steps out after Pepe does, and the crowd goes nuts again. He winks at them with a smirk, which serves to set them off again.

Cristiano and Fábio both start the match. It’s almost like Mourinho is trying to prove a point to the world by doing so. They can hear sporadic chants of “Maricooones, maricooones, oe, oe, oeeee!” coming from the stands, but they’re mainly coming from a few loud Ultra-type fans who get the people around them to sing along.

It’s an uneventful first half, and when Fábio is subbed out at the 65th minute, the crowd erupts into deafening whistles and jeers. Fábio takes his sweet time to the touchline too, head up and eyes resolutely forward. (Mourinho had taken him aside, as soon as his half-time talks were over. The coach said to him, “Like I said, you’ll be subbed out at the 70th minute or so. I want you, when it’s your time, to keep your head up no matter what happens. OK? Head up, face strong. Don’t let it affect you.”)

It’s one of those grueling matches were Cristiano spends half the game on the ground, but that’s normal. It’s so familiar it’s almost comforting: the players tackle him harshly, the referee looks the other way, and the stadium roars in approval. Apparently, that won’t change for anything.

But there’s one particular play, though, sometime near the 75th minute, that’s definitely not the usual. Mesut feeds the ball up to Cristiano, deep in Málaga’s half near the left corner of the pitch. A defender runs straight at him, a blue and white blur, and challenges him roughly. It ends up with the guy’s studs digging into the back of Cristiano’s calf, and the Portuguese goes down. The other player manages to stay on his feet, but he stumbles. It looks like he had lost his balance, and suddenly the back of Cristiano’s hand explodes in pain.

Every person on the Madrid bench is on their feet in protest. The referee sprints over and shows the defender a straight red card. The guy has the audacity to protest against it, as if he hadn’t just clearly stomped on Cristiano’s hand, and the Madrid players lose it on him, shoving him away and yelling.  The Málaga players come to their teammate’s aid, and soon there’s pretty much a brawl going on in the corner.

Pepe walks around the fighting players and crouches down next to Cris, who’s still on the grass cradling his hand.

“Are you OK, man?” he asks his teammate, and Cristiano just holds his hand out in reply. Pepe hisses in sympathy.

There’s blood all over the back of his hand, trailing down his wrist, catching on his wristband, and dripping from his fingertips. Under the blood there are neat rows of marks where the cleats dug in, and angry red marks that will later darken to bruising from the other parts of the shoe.

Pepe takes Cris’s other hand and pulls him to his feet, helping him over to the sidelines where the medics are already waiting. The referee had handed out three yellow cards in his effort to control the brawl: another Málaga player, Mesut, and Benzema, of all people, were carded (the Frenchman seemed almost personally offended by the whole incident, and even after having been shown a card, Sergio had to pull him away from the conflict to avoid him getting sent off).

With his hand heavily bandaged, Cristiano comes back on three minutes later. The crowd jeers and whistles; it sounds like the entire stadium is loudly booing and heckling him, but Cristiano is barely paying them any attention. He’s bled more for this crest this season than he can remember ever bleeding for anything else in his life. And once again, there is an entire stadium full of people watching with morbid curiosity to see how he’ll react, waiting to see if he’ll fail.

Not even five minutes later, they find out. Cristiano gets another beautiful pass from Mesut just inside the area. He looks up and sees that the goalkeeper is off his mark for that one split second.

Never has a goal silenced an entire stadium like Cristiano’s did.

And he celebrates it like this: he turns around to face his teammates and grins in elation while they plow right into him, hugging him and screaming unintelligible things in his ears. And in the middle of the Real Madrid group hug, Cristiano holds a finger up in a “number 1” gesture. It’s his left hand, wrapped in bandages and flecks of blood peeking through underneath, index finger held up imperially.

The message is clear; _You can whistle at me, make chants about me, and hurt me all you want, but you won’t ever silence me._

_Your hate makes me stronger._

**~*~**

All things considered, being out is not as bad as Cristiano thought it would be.                                  

Ever since he’d realized he was gay, Cris’s first instinct was ‘don’t let anyone know’. It had been drummed into him; every time he kept quiet when he saw his friends at the Sporting academy giving a gay classmate a hard time, when he read a tabloid story questioning the sexuality of a rising actor and saw the scathing comments at the bottom of the page, when footballers told the media that there are no gay players in European football.

Every instinct he’s ever known has told him that he can’t be both a happy homosexual and a successful football player. He’d have to pick. And he’d chosen football. He’d become successful, become the best in the world, at his own expense. It had been an easy choice.

But one day, he’d woken up and realized, ‘I’ve made it.’ He was playing for the best club in the world, had won every trophy imaginable, made more money than he ever knew what to do with, and was loved and hated the world over in equal measures. He was already successful, and already probably the best in the world. There was nothing that could be taken away from him if he came out, right? He was already Cristiano fucking Ronaldo.

When he’d called Daniel, his friend at SIC, to do the interview where he and Fábio would confirm the rumors after Iker’s video had gone viral, his hands had been shaking. Regardless of everything, there was still that engrained and sometimes irrational fear of ‘what will happen if I just do it?’

But from his vantage point, Cristiano didn’t think coming out was that bad. Granted, he never would have even considered doing so when he was clawing his way up through Lisbon’s youth system, or proving his worth at Manchester. But here, on top of the world in Madrid, it was hard to see what he had been so afraid of.

Sure, there was the hatred. From people in the stands at away games (and sometimes, unfortunately, at home games too), who would chant terrible things and hold up signs and throw things like condoms at the Madrid bench. From people in the Spanish media, who criticized him for the timing of his admission, when the team was 8 points down from Barça and had barely advanced in the Copa del Rey. Cristiano wasn’t fazed; he’s gotten worse for less important things.

But it’s surprised him just how important it was what he and Fábio had done. They hadn’t really thought about too many other people other than themselves and their families when they decided to stop pretending. But sometimes Cristiano will be flicking through the channels and he’ll come across a random show of complete strangers discussing how their coming out will affect kids who play sports. Zé will read him some of his fan mail, and it’s people from Japan, Brazil, United States, from all over, just thanking him for what he and Fábio had done. For what it meant.

It’s different for him, though, in different ways. What it means for other people is hope, and change, and maybe, acceptance. What it means for him is that he can take Fábio out on their first real date after three years. His hands are shaking as he holds the menu and the photographers outside are not subtle. Fábio keeps glancing over his shoulder, before he remembers with a sheepish smile that he has nothing to hide anymore.

What it means for him is that while he can now go out with his boyfriend like a normal person, every single interaction between them becomes big news. Shared looks at training, pictures of them doing nothing more than going grocery shopping are published, picked apart and analyzed, and it’s almost like these moments don’t belong to them anymore: now they have to share the life they’d built with millions of other curious people, ready to condemn them or defend them or make an example out of them.

No one’s vandalized his locker, or fired him, or dropped his contract (even Konami), or done any of the other crazy things he used to agonize. But coming out has changed his life in little ways he didn’t expect. Like when Jorge tells him that Time Magazine is asking for permission to name him Person of the Year. Or when Portugal requests extra security detail for Cris and Fábio during their friendly in Saudi Arabia. Or even when he sees that the tabloids have resurrected the “surrogate mother” rumors, and are questioning his parenting skills with a vengeance.

It’s nothing like what he thought it would be like, certainly nothing like what he feared, and now when he wakes up in the mornings, Cris takes an extra moment to lie in bed and be grateful for the man that’s still at his side and for the football that he still gets to kick around for a living.

 

**~*~**

  
They’re in the locker room in Bilbao late in the season in April. It’s coming down to the wire and every single point now becomes crucial and vital. They haven’t lost in Liga in a while, but they’ve been struggling against Athletic for the past 45 minutes. They’re tied 1-1 when Madrid should really be up 3-1; they’ve wasted a few chances and they hope that it won’t come back to bite them in the second half.

Mourinho is giving his half-time speech of doom, illustrating a new formation using sticks of gum, and generally instilling fear and determination into his team. Fábio risks a glance at Cris. The other man’s face is deadly serious, brow furrowed and jaw set as he absorbs everything his coach is saying. He knows that mentally, Cris is preparing himself to put the team on his shoulders again, although hopefully, it won’t come to that. Cris’s feet are restless, like he needs to be back out on the pitch; he’s bouncing his knees impatiently and his boots are clack clack clacking against the tile floor.  


Fábio reaches out and puts a hand on his knee, stopping it from moving. (Someone in the back of the room mutters 'thank god'). Cris looks over at him and Fábio holds his gaze. Cris relaxes a bit the longer they stay that way, jaw unclenching, brow softening, but still tense in the shoulders. Fábio squeezes his knee and looks away, thumb soothing circles over bone and sinew. He's about to remove his hand when Cris's falls on his. Almost like on accident or something. Cris isn’t looking at him anymore; he’s studying Mourinho’s gum formations again. Fábio stamps out his smile, and leaves their hands there.  


Out of the corner of his eye he sees Iker and Álvaro throwing knowing smirks their way, but Fábio stares resolutely forward.

Madrid leave Basque Country with a well-fought and well-deserved 3-2 and three more points.

 

**~*~**

They don’t win the Liga title this season.

They had lost too many points too early in the season and they never won the game of catch-up. The title had gone to Atléti who, against all odds, had held on to their points and upset Barça with a win and a tie during their fixtures. Real placed third, the spot it had occupied most of the season.

The fans weren’t really too upset about that, however.

Madrid win their tenth Champions League title at Wembley Stadium, beating an English team on the 150th anniversary of English football. When the final whistle blows, Cristiano actually sits down on the pitch where he’s standing and cries into his hands. He doesn’t even attempt to get up and celebrate with the team, who are jumping and hugging in a piña a few feet away. Fábio finds him a minute later and drags him to his feet, laughing, and swipes a thumb under his eye to wipe the tears away. Cristiano pulls him into his arms and clutches at him, burying his face in Fábio’s neck and letting the emotions course through him. Fábio’s got tears in his eyes too, but he’s laughing like he can’t stop. Cris presses a quick kiss to the man’s temple, and then turns to their team and lets them pull them into the circle.

Cibeles is a blur of people and flashes and noise. Cris is content to just hang back and take it all in, wave at the crowds, sign some autographs and throw some scarves into the crowd. Fábio sidles up next to him and grabs his arm, putting it across his shoulders with a smirk and they greet the fans just like that; with one hand Cristiano waves to the crowd and the other he keeps around Fábio.

The team makes it to the imposing statue and Iker takes off his scarf, intending to wrap it around the goddess. But he hesitates when he’s about to climb up the ladder and then turns around, pointing to Cristiano and waving him over. The goalkeeper tries to coax Cristiano into being the one to go up and drape the scarf on the goddess, but Cristiano refuses. It’s got to be Iker. It’s always Iker. He’s not going to be the one to change the tradition. After a little discussion Cristiano agrees to go up with Iker and _help_ him put the scarf on Cibeles. They climb up the ladder and squeeze into the standing room on the landing. Cristiano’s got one end and Iker’s got the other; the Spaniard loops the fabric around the neck of the statue and Cristiano ties the knot as thousands of fans scream in approval.

There are many other stops along their La Decima victory tour, but the most important one, for Cris, is the Bernabéu. The stadium is packed and the players can hear the noise of the crowd, even while in the tunnel. Placido Domingo sings their hymn, as always, and Florentino addresses the fans. It’s strange, for Cris and Fábio, that this is the same man who spent months at the beginning of the season making their lives miserable. The same man who called them up on the way back from London to personally congratulate them and thank them for their effort. The same man that’s throwing this crazy, no-expense-spared celebration.

After a seizure-inducing light show, the players are called one by one to the large podium. Florentino gives the cup to Iker and steps back to let the team take the spotlight. The noise from the fans is deafening when Iker lifts the trophy high above his head with a yell of victory. The players take turns presenting the trophy to the Bernabéu and saying a few words to the fans. Finally Marcelo puts the cup in Cristiano’s hand and it’s his turn to lift it up. The noise level ratchets up again, with the stadium cheering and chanting his name. Sergio and Mesut push Cris toward the microphone and the forward goes, a bit reluctantly. The crowd hushes as he reaches the mike and wait, expectant.

Cristiano clears his throat and looks up a bit nervously. “Hello, everyone.” The crowd replies with a deafening cheer. “I just want to thank you guys for being the best fans in the world-” another cheer, “and for always sticking with the team no matter what. You all know this season we’ve had our ups and our d-downs,” Cris’s breath catches as the emotion wells up, but he clears throat and plows on, “as a team and as individuals. And I want to thank you and dedicate this trophy to all of you for believing in us and loving us. _Obrigado_.” He holds the trophy high above his head once again, and from the south end of the stadium he hears a chant that pretty soon everyone else in the Bernabéu is singing: “How could I not love you? How could I not love you? When you’ve made us Champions of Europe for a tenth time?”

Once the formal part is over, the players leave the podium and greet their waiting families. Wives, girlfriends, children and relatives pour onto the field to meet their respective players. Cris makes a beeline for his mom and siblings. Dolores is holding Junior on her hip and he gives them both a bear hug, his mom holding him close and whispering in his ear “I’m so proud of you, son. And I know he would be too,” and Cris has to blink back tears again.

Junior is very distracted trying to catch the falling confetti and barely notices when he’s transferred to Cristiano’s arms. He’s wearing a little miniature Coentrão jersey; he’d gotten it in his mind that he wanted to wear papa’s shirt to the party, and neither of his dads could convince him otherwise. Cris plants a big kiss on his son’s cheek and glances around. This is the first time he’s ever brought his son along to something so public, with so many cameras present. He hugs Junior close and makes his way back toward the podium, pointing out some balloons that were being dropped now and the almost-three-year-old looks around in excitement. His family follows behind them, greeting and chatting with the other Portuguese speakers as they make their way to take pictures with the trophy _._

Fábio is gathering up Vitoria, who’s wearing a little colorful flowery dress with little stockings, and a tiny Real Madrid cardigan over it. Junior cries out happily “‘Tória! ‘Tória!” and the Coentrãos look up. Cristiano brings them over and lets Junior greet Fábio’s little girl.

Cristiano leans over to give her a kiss on the cheek and a “hello, pretty girl”. She blushes, hiding her face in her daddy’s neck, overwhelmed by all the noise and excitement. Junior calls out to her, “‘Tória, look!” and she looks over to see him tilting his head back and sticking his tongue out and trying to catch confetti as if it were raindrops. He catches a few and Vitoria looks impressed and leans back to try it too. Fábio shakes his head at them, exchanging exasperated looks of “oh, our children” with Cristiano. Junior starts eating some of the confetti he caught and Cristiano puts on his “dad” face, holding out his hand until Cristianinho spits it back up onto his palm. Cris scrunches up his face and tosses the little wad away to the side.

Fábio catches a balloon for Vitoria, and puts her down so she can play with it. Cris watches how he fixes up her hair and straightens her tiny cardigan because, yeah, Fábio acting all parental is still one of the hottest things ever. The other man glances up, feeling Cris’s gaze, and smirks, standing back up and holding Cristiano’s hand to pull him close.

“Can you believe all this?” he shouts over the music into Cris’s ear. “Did you ever think we could make it here when we started the season? That we would end it with a motherfucking Champions League?”

It’s the same question he’s been asked by the media since the final whistle blew at Wembley to the time he walked into the Bernabéu. They asked it without the expletive, though, and Cris always gave the same media-ready response: ‘Of course, we always believe that everything is possible and we work hard to make it happen.’ This time though, his answer is honest. “Of course not!” Fábio laughs, and Cris grins in reply, continuing. “It seemed absolutely impossible at the start of the season, you know that. That’s what makes it so much sweeter, everything we had to go through to get here.”

Fábio glances up at him and asks, slyly, “Oh, is _that_ what makes it sweeter?”

Cris winks and reaches out his free hand to cup the back of Fábio’s neck, feeling the little hairs there. He gently pulls Fábio closer with a “c’mere”, and slants his lips down to meet his lover’s. There are flashes going off all around them, Junior is sitting on Cris’s hip going “Ewww, pai!”, and somewhere behind them he hears a cheer (sounds like Pepe). But Cris’s world is the size of the space between them, and beyond that there is nothing else. He pulls away and rests his forehead on Fábio’s, looking into his lover’s brown eyes.

“This part also makes things sweeter, too.”

Fábio blushes and steps back, smiling. Cris finally puts his son down and the little one jogs over to his future stepsister. Cris and Fábio watch their children sit down among all the noise and lights and chaos, and play with their balloons and little bits of confetti.

“Look at them. So happy over little pieces of paper.” Cris chuckles wistfully. God, had he ever been that young and carefree?

Fábio nudges him with his elbow. “Well, look at us. So happy over dinnerware, over a cup.”

Cris hums in agreement, and loops an arm across Fábio’s waist to hold him against his side. He looks around and sees the cup is with the Alonsos, and Nagore is trying to make sure everyone is in the frame for the picture, which Kaká volunteered to take. The Brazilian sees him out of the corner of his eye and he turns to Cris, waving him to come over and take a picture. Cris feels no rush; he’s content right where he is, Fábio in his arms, kids playing at their feet, families chattering loudly behind them. He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head at Kaká, waving him away. He’ll get over there eventually.

Fábio watches all this, silently, smile playing on his lips. He looks up at Cris again, “So… Here is the million dollar question.”

Cris laughs, “Yes?”

Fábio puts on his best TV reporter voice, and asks, “Are you happy at Real Madrid?”

That _was_ the million dollar question, that was the 130 million dollar question. Earlier in the season he would have hesitated before answering, or not answered at all. Now there’s no doubt about what his answer is.

Cris grins, and pulls Fábio down for a kiss once again.


End file.
